


These Games We Play

by LucyCrewe11 (Raphaela_Crowley)



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Drama, F/M, Fake Soap Operas, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Lucy As A Kid From District 1, No Incest, POV Alternating, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:20:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 35
Words: 147,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25413064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raphaela_Crowley/pseuds/LucyCrewe11
Summary: In the district that was once the Lantern Waste, Edmund and Jill find themselves selected as tributes in the 77th Hunger Games.This is their story.It is also the story of Eustace, Peter, and Lucy -- a family from District 1.
Relationships: Edmund Pevensie/Lucy Pevensie, Jill Pole/Eustace Scrubb
Comments: 8
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1: Edmund

**Author's Note:**

> Originally Written November 2011 through February 2012

"Happy Hunger Games," I say nonchalantly, hearing my elder sister's footsteps approaching my bedroom.

The door is open, and I have one foot up on the bed, trying to lace up my boots.

I know these are two things she hates rolled into one: the Hunger Games and me putting my dirty footwear on the bedspread even though she's told me not to hundreds of times.

 _Nobody_ likes the Hunger Games. Well, nobody from District 7 does, anyway. People in the Capitol look forward to it all year. It's not like anyone they know has to participate. People from the Districts 1, 2, and 4 like the Hunger Games, too. They train for it, even though that's supposed to be against the rules. For them, it's an honour. For us, here in 7, it's anything from an inconvenience to an out-right yearly tragedy. But of course we act like we view it as a privilege just like 1, 2, and 4 do. All the other districts do. Even 12, and rumour is that some of them are so poor they're quietly starving to death out there.

So why do we all pretend we think it's the greatest bloody thing since the invention of the wheel, if we actually secretly hate it?

We don't have a death wish, that's why.

But Susan can't get used to it. She's resigned to it, like all of us are, but her acting leaves much to be desired. You can tell by the way she clenches her jaw and her face goes all ash-white, and how she doesn't sleep the night before the reaping, that she's petrified.

As for the shoes-on-the-bedspread issue, that's just one of Susan's annoying pet peeves that make absolutely no sense. It's gotten to the point where I don't even bother mentioning that they're _my_ sheets to mess up anyhow. That just gets her on this whole tangent regarding how I never help with the laundry.

Today, however, I might be safe from any such lectures. She's always more sentimental and patient with me on the day of the reaping.

I think, even though she never says so, it's because she knows that I could be gone by the end of it. She's safe now; her name's not in the drawing anymore because she's gotten too old. At twenty-one, she hasn't been eligible for three years. But never once has she lost that scared look or that one sleepless night beforehand.

Because roughly around the same time her name was removed, mine went right on in.

At fifteen, my name-my eligibility as a tribute for the games-isn't going anywhere for the next three years.

"May the odds be ever in your favor," Susan says, forcing a weak smile at me.

I know she means it, that it's not just a cheerful little holiday greeting in her perception, but I'm not worried. I mean, three years and my name hasn't been selected yet. So far so good. Way I see it, by the end of the day, Susan will be breathing a sigh of relief, having worried for nothing. If she could go, what, seven years, without her name ever being drawn, why can't I?

"Aren't they always?" I take my foot off the bed and turn, grinning at her.

"You look nice," she notes. "Where are you going?"

"Anne Featherstone's house." I shrug. "I'm having luncheon with her parents." I add, "Don't worry, I'll be at the reaping at one." I have to be. Attendance is mandatory. If you don't show, you had best be coughing up blood or lying lifelessly in a casket in the funeral home.

"Why are you even _with_ Anne?" asks Susan, looking perplexed.

"She's pretty," I admit, sort of under my breath. "And her family's rich." Really, really rich. Unlike most people here in District 7, her father isn't a lumberjack or a woodsman; he owns a paper factory.

"Edmund, that's terrible."

"I didn't hear any complaints from you when I brought back leftovers from their house last year when the value of lumber went down and we were running out of food," I snap.

We don't talk about that. How close I came to having to take out a tesserae.

A tesserae is basically an exchange for a small amount of oil, grain, wheat, and flour. But the price is high. It's another entry in the reaping. It doesn't seem like much, your name being added in one more measly time, but Susan swore it would add up and begged me not to. Still, I told her I would get the tesserae if I couldn't figure out another way to feed all four of us-her, me, and our parents.

Then, after school one day, Anne Featherstone asked me if I would like to have supper over her house that night. Not because she noticed I was getting thin, not for the same reason Susan sometimes leads random bums with patched-up coats and blood-shot eyes into _our_ house for a meal when we're doing all right financially. Anne asked me because she liked me. And her parents had no problem with their daughter's boyfriend taking food home. Anne's father doesn't like me, but I've yet to see him say no to anything his only child wants. Which means, for now, I'm welcome in their house.

To be completely honest, I was a secretly a little flattered that she noticed me to begin with. It's not like I ever _hated_ Anne or anything. She's attractive, with her blonde hair and greenish-blue eyes, and she can be surprisingly good company so long as she's not in one of her more whiny moods and none of the family servants have gotten on her nerves lately. Lots of boys here in District 7 are mad about her. And considering she couldn't stand me when we were younger because, at age nine, I called her a rather nasty name that sounds kind of like 'twit' but with a different vowel (I didn't know what it meant, I _was_ just a kid), the fact that she's interested in me now is something of a miracle.

And a miracle was exactly what I was looking for when Susan tried to take the tesserae option out of the picture for my own good.

Apparently, Susan can't think of a good rebuttal, because she's standing there in my doorway with her mouth slightly agape.

"See you later." I brush passed her.

In the next room, Mum is glued to the television. We have decent-sized one, even though we aren't rich. Even dirt poor people in the really bad parts of Districts 11 or 12 own a small telly. The government makes sure of it. Because, if they didn't have one, how could they watch the Hunger Games every year? The law makes it mandatory viewing. No one is allowed to say, "Hey, is there anything _else_ on?" and change the channel over.

Now, though, since the Hunger Games haven't started yet for this year, the tributes waiting to be chosen today, Mum can watch her favorite soap while she nurses a bowl of oatmeal that's getting colder by the second.

"Oh, Emma!" she sobs at the screen. "Why are you marrying _him_? You're throwing your whole life away!"

I squint at the program she's watching and roll my eyes. "Mum! That's not even your show."

She sits up straighter, puts the bowl of oatmeal down beside her on the sofa, and, twisting her torso, blinks at me. "What?"

" _Your_ show is about a girl named _Laurel,_ not Emma," I sigh, embarrassed that I know that.

For weeks, I've been hearing the theme to _Laurel's Worldly World_ blasting every morning. I almost hummed it the other day simply because it got stuck in my head. I think I may actually hate that dashed soap, but it's currently Mum's favorite thing.

That is, when she's not getting it mixed up with _Emma Emerald_ on the next channel over.

I'm seriously hoping it's a phase.

"Oh, my." She looks back at the screen and hastily changes the channel. "You're right! Where would I be without you?"

For a moment we both stare at each other.

Normally, her comment would be met by indifference. But I think, deep down, like Susan, she worries that, after today, I might be carried off to the Capitol and she really _would_ be without me.

Only, she has nothing to worry about. I didn't take any tesserae. So I have no entries beyond the required minimum. I have a rich girlfriend who can give us food in case of emergency. The value of wood in general is steadily going up, putting more money in Father's pocket. The odds are _definitely_ in our favor.

Mum quickly brushes away tears she doesn't want me to see and focuses her attention back on the television, forgetting her problems, totally immersed in Laurel's. "Oh, Laurel! How _can_ you marry him? He doesn't love you! You're throwing away your life."

"Mum," says Susan, coming out of my doorway with her arms folded across her chest, a single dark lock of her black hair falling over one shoulder, "how can you watch that? It's so predictable..." Her voice trails off and she starts watching more intently. "Wait, _that's_ who she's marrying?" She rushes over and sits next to Mum, who moves the bowl of oatmeal back into her lap to make room.

Women! I think, about to leave, finding my eyes drawn to the screen in spite of myself.

Laurel is staring at her wedding dress hanging on a hook on the back of her dressing room closet. The words, _To Be Continued..._ appear and the picture fades to black.

"So, next week's going to show her wedding?" I ask, leaning over the back of the sofa and putting my head next to Susan's ear. Not that any of us will actually get to see it, as the Hunger Games will have begun by then.

"Edmund," Susan laughs at me, "it's a _soap_. The ring boy and flower girl might not even make it down that aisle by next week, never-mind Laurel."

"Right," I say, grabbing my hat off the coat-hooks by the door. "Well, see you at the reaping."

Standing on the raised, slightly chipped, red-brick porch, I close the door behind myself and breathe in deeply.

There's a slight chill in the air, but aside from that the weather is fairly comfortable over-all.

I skip down the steps and walk along a dirt path with narrow, barely-there, sidewalks. A few broken glass bottles and candy-wrappers are scattered in the gutters. I come to a stop at a tall iron post with a rusty old broken lantern set on top of it.

They say it used to be the only lamppost here in District 7, when there were more trees than people and this path hadn't been made yet. Not that we aren't swarmed with trees _now_. Our district's specialty is lumber and paper, after all. But supposedly it was so dense you could barely walk through it without stumbling over roots and brambles. Back then it wasn't called District 7. They called it the Lantern Waste. It was before Panem's time, back when this country was called Narnia.

Sitting with his back against the broken lamppost, is a somewhat scruffy-looking chap called Tumnus. He's not exactly a bum, but sometimes he gets so lost in his music that he might as well be. Those are the chief loves of his life: music and books. When he's reading, you basically have to be running around with your clothes set on fire for him to look up and take notice of you. And when he's doing his music? Forget it. Unless he happens to meet your eyes and wants your opinion of his new song, a conversation is just not going to take place.

That's why, even though he has a nice house and when he remembers he has to work with the other woodsmen to keep himself warm and fed he does fine, Susan has had to bring him into our house for countless meals, even when we didn't have much to spare. In all fairness, when he has food, he shares with us. Susan had tea or luncheon over his house dozens of times as a little girl, and he always gave her something to take home to the rest of us, even if it was just a bit of butter or four bread rolls wrapped in a napkin.

Usually on the reaping day, Tumnus can be found in this very spot, playing a wooden flute, only today he has a stringed instrument instead and is singing along with his made-up strummings.

His tune and voice are very good. But unlike most days when he takes it in his head to sing, he isn't bellowing out humourous words about the more comedic elements of living in such a woodsy area. No, instead, he's singing a song that, though thinly disguised, is _clearly_ about the Hunger Games. He's not showing them in a positive light either.

Has he lost his mind? Today of all days? On the reaping? If the peacekeepers don't apprehend him, some git visiting from the Capitol for the reaping ceremony is bound to.

"Tumnus," I say, warningly, snapping my fingers to get his attention.

"What? Where?" He stops strumming and looks up, bewildered.

I cough pointedly.

"Ah, Edmund Martin." He smiles faintly. "What do you think of the song?"

"I think you're going to get yourself in a whole lot of trouble," I hiss down at him. "The Hunger Games are a privilege, _remember_?"

His smile fades. "Well, I'm sorry, Edmund, but nothing rhymes with _privilege_!" Sighing, he stands up.

Tumnus has weird legs, they're always sort of bent, like there's something the matter with his muscles. He also walks on his toes all the time. If I didn't know any better, I'd swear the man had the hindquarters of a goat.

This is a hard day for pretty much everybody, but I think Tumnus knows I'm right. He can't go around singing songs like that without putting the whole district in danger.

Let's just say, once upon a time, there used to be _13_ districts in Panem. Now there's just the 12. There's a reason for that. And we could be blown off the map next if the Capitol takes us for rebels or traitors.

"Edmund!" shouts a deep-sounding girl's voice. "Happy Hunger Games!"

I turn around to see Johanna Mason standing there. "Hey!"

Johanna Mason. How _does_ one describe somebody like Johanna Mason? Well, some people think she's completely insane. As for me, I just think she got her head bashed in with a rock one too many times during her Hunger Games.

She's one of District 7's own victors. She won her Hunger Games by ingeniously pretending to be a pathetic, sniveling crybaby. She acted like she was scared of her own shadow and wanted to go home. So nobody bothered with her until the game was dwindling down to a very slim handful of remaining contestants, and they all found out, too late, that the sobbing girl from District 7 was deadly with an axe.

Now she lives in the Victor's Village (every district's got one) and is so rich she could become Mr. Featherstone's boss if she took the notion. It's strange to think, to really recall, that she used to be from one of the poorest families here. Her parents actually died of malnutrition while she was away in the Capitol. That's the official story, anyway. The one the doctors and peacekeepers came up with. None of us, including Johanna, knows for certain how true it is.

We, her and I, have an... _interesting_...relationship. We're sort of friends. Except, Mum and Susan go mental every time I so much as mention visiting her house. Because, well, I came home drunk from her house once. Mum says Johanna has all the signs of alcoholism and is terrified she'll corrupt me and turn me into a full-blown drunkard or something. She did, however, make me go over there to give Johanna a questionnaire pamphlet regarding her drinking habits. She said to tell my Mum thanks. Turns out it's a fantastic coaster. Also, there's the whole thing about how, even though she's never been in a serious relationship, everybody knows Johanna had a few lovers in the Capitol after winning the Hunger Games. It's not exactly a secret. I guess my folks, especially Mum, didn't like the thought of my going alone to her house after hearing about that.

But the thing is, I like Johanna. As a friend. She's the only person I've ever met who can beat me in a sarcasm battle.

I mean, yeah, she's weird and in desperate need of a psychiatrist (no one will hire her one because they don't want to anger the Capitol by daring to imply that their games have a bad effect on _anyone_ ). And, all right, maybe she _is_ the sort of person who will randomly take off her clothes just to make you uncomfortable during an argument (very awkward, especially when it happens in public). But she can be a lot of fun. And fun is a something of a rarity here. The Hunger Games can be frightening, but most of the time life here is pretty boring. My sister is always telling me, "Boring is safe, Edmund," and I know she's right. Yet I still crave a bit of excitement from time to time. Even if it's just playing drinking games with Johanna then hiding in the bushes to throw pinecones at unsuspecting passersby.

"When was the last time you came over my house for a drink?" Johanna asks.

Too long. "Um, a month ago?" I guess.

"How about after the reaping?" she suggests. "We can watch the repeat showings of the reapings from other districts."

"I'll come if I don't have to watch," I say. The Hunger Games, along with their opening ceremonies and interviews with the tributes, might be required viewing, but the reaping isn't. It's televised, but it's not like anyone in the districts could watch the whole thing live, not when they have to be present for their own district's reaping. So there's no law against not watching that.

"All right," she says.

"My mum doesn't want me going over to your house anymore, you know," I add.

She smirks. "So, I'll see you at five?"

"Of course," I assure her.

"Oh, we'd better make it five thirty," she realizes, stopping in the middle of the road.

"Why?" I've never seen her put off drinking before.

"I'm the mentor this year," explains Johanna, rolling her eyes. "For the tributes. I drew the short straw. So I have to go see the poor saps in the Justice Building and introduce myself."

"That also means you have to get up really early," I point out. "To catch the train to the Capitol with them."

She swears under her breath. "Don't remind me."

"Listen, I'm late," I tell her, knowing Anne will have a fit if I'm not knocking at her door within the next five minutes. "I'll see you at five thirty."

"Tell Anne I said Happy Hunger Games." She winks at me.

This is a running joke between us. Johanna is always telling me to give her best to Anne, knowing I will _never_ bring her name up in front of my girlfriend.

When Anne first started showing interest in me, Johanna thought it was the funniest thing ever. As she never liked Anne, she would deliberately make these little flirty faces at me and blow kisses in my direction just to make her mad. It was pretty amusing, but I sobered up and stopped viewing it as such when Anne threatened to end our courtship if I didn't tell 'that tramp Johanna Mason' to back off.

The thing is, Johanna's a really fun friend, but despite the fact that she's up to her ears in money, I know she isn't going to take care of my family. She blows a lot of her Hunger Games income on booze, for one. And even if I _could_ muster up the courage (and coherency) to ask her for money or food after a visit with her, I get the feeling I would have to come up with a major lie or else my Mum would never accept the gift. Even if we were starving. Not from _her_. Not from the young woman who's 'ruining' her son.

Thankfully, Johanna was a real brick about it when I told her what Anne said. She hasn't made fake sheep eyes at me once since I asked her not to.

I arrive at the Featherstones' doorstep right on time.

The door is opened by a timid-looking maid who, doubtless, will be fired by the end of the week at latest.

Anne runs down the spiral staircase in the middle of the receiving room to greet me. She's wearing one of the most ruffled puffy white dresses I've ever seen in my life, her curled hair is pinned up, and there's a shiny gold pin on the left side of her bodice.

"What do you think?" she asks, twirling around.

No hello, no 'how are you, Edmund?'. Not even a "Happy Hunger Games to you!" or a "May the odds be ever in your favor". Nope, all she wants is my opinion of the dress.

"You look like a pastry," I blurt out.

She furrows her pale eyebrows. "You don't have any taste in fashion."

"I'm sure I don't," I say to make amends. My tone is dark, though. I don't like being treated like a pet she's training, but sometimes I think I don't have much choice.

Anne doesn't pick up on the edge in my voice. Instead, she smiles and insists I take her arm and lead her into the dining room for luncheon, reminding me that her folks don't like to be kept waiting.

"I want to look nice, you know," she prattles on in my ear. "If I have to go to the Capitol."

Because Anne is my age, she still has full eligibility. But her odds are as good as mine of not being picked. She's just showing off. Fancy dress that no one else (except Johanna, if she got the notion) in our district can afford, solid gold pin to set off the already absurd display of extravagance.

Sometimes I think Anne would have been better off being born in the Capitol, where all they talk or think about is entertainment and fashion. She would have fit in there perfectly. She doesn't belong here, in this district. At the very least, she would fit in better in a wealthier district like 1, 2, or 4. She'll never be like the rest of us here in 7, no matter how many times her name winds up in the reaping bowl.

I sneak a closer look at her pin. It's a bird in a circle with an arrow in its mouth. It looks like he's in flight. I wonder what sort of bird it is, but don't bothering asking. I strongly suspect Anne doesn't know a whole lot about birds, either.

Luncheon with her parents goes by quickly and has only one truly awkward moment. A vast improvement from the last time I ate with them.

I mess up by noticing the really fancy china with gold around the rim and hand-painted green vines. They always have nice things, but this is the first time I've seen these.

So I make the mistake of asking, "When was the last time you used these dishes?"

Mr. Featherstone, who never misses an opportunity to put me in my place, grunts, "The night Anne was conceived."

I can't help it, I make a face of revulsion and force the salad in my mouth down by gulping water like it's going out of style.

Mrs. Featherstone, blushing and looking unnerved, passes a plate to me. "More spinach, Edmund?"

I take some, for the sake of keeping busy and not making eye-contact with Mr. Featherstone, but I don't eat it. I hate spinach. Always have, always will.

Finally the poor, flustered maid, who has obviously been listening to our lovely little meal-time conversation, clears away the dishes.

Mrs. Featherstone says, "You two had better go. You don't want to be late."

Anne gives my tweed overcoat and woolen hat a disdainful look, as if noticing them for the first time. Up till this point, she was too preoccupied with her own clothes, I guess. "You _are_ going to go home and change first, aren't you?"

"Uh, no," I answer truthfully.

She makes a snort-like noise of disapproval.

"We can't be late." I remind her that I don't have time to go home and change, even if I wanted to. Which I don't. Only, I keep that last bit to myself.

In a big clearing that serves as the 'public square' for District 7, dead-set between the shopping centers, bakeries, and other public places and the dense woods beyond, a temporary stage has been set up. The glass bowl with all the girls' names in it is already set on a little polished pedestal.

I try not to yawn or sigh exaggeratedly as a bunch of peacekeepers in their olive-green uniforms hustle me and Anne over to a roped-off space where the other eligible children are standing.

The little twelve-year-olds are all trembling, even though most of them only have their names entered once. 'Almost' because some of them have doubtless taken their tesserae now that they're old enough.

The older kids look calmer, though some shift nervously from foot to foot.

Anne glares at a younger girl and snaps, "Marjorie! Must you _breathe_ so loudly?"

There is the screechy noise of a microphone being turned on, and a thick, gutter-version of a Capitol accent goes, "Hah-loo, boys and gels."

I cringe and stare down at my feet. It doesn't matter that I've been hearing Pug's voice every reaping day since I was a baby, his bad accent and arrogant tone still sends shivers of disgust up and down my spine.

Pug is the man the Capitol sends to District 7 to pull our names out of the bowl and read them aloud. They always send him. Every year I make a wish that he'll be sick and we'll get a respite, a nice change of pace. Someone new. But I guess Pug is in perfect health because we haven't had a substitute yet. Not ever, that I can recall. I've seen the people they send to other districts on television; not all of them are as ugly as Pug. They're all freaks of nature, slaves to fashion who dye their hair stupid colours and wear tight, ill-fitted clothes, but most of them are still an improvement on what we're sent.

Against my better judgment, I sneak a glimpse up at Pug. I want to know what stupid garment he's wearing this time so I can make fun of it later when I go over to Johanna's house. Last year, we played this game where we took a swing of this really strong wine every time either of us said the word 'medallion' because of the enormous, gaudy piece of jewelry Pug had dangling from his neck at the reaping.

Today, Pug is wearing purposefully torn clothes of different dark and light colours, including deep purples and bright oranges. It looks like he couldn't decide whether to dress up as a pirate, gypsy, or a gangster so he just went ahead and came as all three.

"Now, it's that time again," says Pug into the microphone. "For celebration and repentance."

I half-listen as he launches into this whole tirade about how after the country of Narnia went down the drains, Panem rose from the ashes, its 13 districts and its proud, perfect, Capitol. There was a war...it must never happen again...blah blah blah... The Hunger Games were invented to remind us all that we owe our lives to the Capitol...yada, yada...

One year, some coot jumped up screaming, "Lies! Lies! _Cair Paravel_ was perfect! The Capitol is a worthless parody of something good! We have nothing to repent for! What have we done lately? Besides let our children die for your sick entertainment?"

And we never saw him again.

I think that's why I worry about Tumnus and his questionable songs. I don't want him to become the next nameless 'rebellious coot' who gets apprehended and never comes back.

"And now," Pug continues, "I will select one boy and gel to participate in the 77th annual Hunger Games! As this is an honour as well as a reminder, please keep your emotions in check. Let's have no fuss and then none of you will have anything to cry _about_ , see?"

I feel the sun beating down on my head. It's giving me a headache. And all of a sudden all I can think about is how badly I want this to be over. I wish I was already drinking with Johanna, mocking Pug.

"Little gels first." Pug puts his hand in the bowl and pulls out a name. "Jill Pole!"

I swallow hard. I don't know her too well, but I do know her. She's a nice girl and she goes to school with me even though we're not in the same year. She's about thirteen, I would guess. Normally, she keeps to herself, but I've seen other kids talking to her before. Not as friends, as bullies. For the first time I wish I'd said something to the teacher about it. Told on those little brats just once. Now it's too late. Jill Pole will never go to school again. She'll lose and be dead. Or she'll win (unlikely) and be as rich as Johanna Mason.

Peacekeepers find her among us, and guide her up to the stage. She's got pretty eyes, hazel. And her light brown hair is curly. Long too. It ends in these big spiraling banana curls almost at her waist.

She stands on stage, wearing that same gray sweater I've seen her wear at school, looking out at us all, a little stunned. Bewildered surprise. That's the only expression I can read in her.

Someone comes and takes the glass bowl away, replacing it with another one. This one has all the boys' names in it. Including mine.

Pug reaches in, his ugly, sausage-shaped fingers running over a few different slips of paper teasingly. It's funny to him, I'm sure. But it's life or death to us.

Not me, though. Because the odds are in my favor. I know they are. It's not going to be me.

He finally grasps a slip of paper between two of his fingers and pulls it out. "Edmund Martin!"

 _Me_. I nearly choke on my own spit.

Beside me, Anne starts wailing at the top of her voice. She allows Marjorie and some other girl whose name I don't know to come and put their arms around her consolingly.

It isn't Anne I'm worried about now. It's my parents. And Susan. Oh, Susan! I feel like I've lied to her, as well as to myself. Acting like everything was going to be fine, when all along this was a distinct possibility.

I find myself scanning the crowd for my sister as the peacekeepers usher me over to the stage.

Probably, straining to see Susan and catch her eyes, I've annoyed the peacekeepers, not moving quickly enough. One of them tries to drag me. Which I immediately buck at.

"Hey get off," I hiss, shoving their hands away. "I know how to get on a stage by myself. Get off me!"

"The tributes of District 7!" cries Pug, gesturing at me and Jill with a wave of his arm. "Edmund Martin and Jill Pole!"

There is polite clapping, nothing more. No one is happy about this. But no one is coming forward, volunteering to take our places, either.

Finally I meet Susan's eyes. They're full of tears, and I can't stand the broken expression on her face. I realize that she isn't seeing _me_ , fifteen year old Edmund. She's seeing the baby brother Mum let her hold when she was six years old.

My parents are both white-faced and aged years in a manner of seconds.

It hits me. I'm probably never coming home again. I find myself wishing I'd been a better son and brother. No sneaking off to drink with Johanna, no fighting at school, and, silly as it sounds, no putting my boots on the bed-spread like I did this morning, annoying Susan.

Anne is still bawling her head off. "My boyfriend is going to d-die!"

Golly, thanks Anne, your vote of confidence is _overwhelming_. I scowl in her general direction.

Not that she notices. After all, this is a really big deal, and it no longer actually concerns _my_ opinion on anything. Now she can brag about how she has a boyfriend in the Hunger Games. She and her close chums will watch me get killed on live television and everyone will be all, "Poor Anne."

Whatever.

I look over my shoulder at where Johanna is sitting. She's in a chair on the stage with the other precious few past victors from our district. Pug rambled her name, and those of the others, earlier, when I was mocking him in my head.

It's funny how life can turn on you like that. One minute I'm planning to meet up with Johanna later, the next I _am_ definitely going to meet up with her later, except not for a drink. I'll be meeting her in the Justice Building. I had better find a way of staying unwaveringly on her good side, too. Because if I don't, I'm dead. She's my mentor now. Mine and Jill's. A big part of the responsibility of keeping us alive in that arena will be on her shoulders.

She gives me a look that makes me want to drop dead right then and there. We're barely friends, that look tells me. She'll help me like she's supposed to, _maybe_. But I realize then that hanging out together and enjoying a drink or two doesn't mean we care a fig about each other. I remember something she said to me once: "The Capitol can't hurt me. There's no one left I care about."

And that includes me.

Before today, I wouldn't have worried about her not caring whether I live or die. But now I care. What if she decides to neglect taking care of any sponsors to keep me alive during the games and only caters to Jill? I mean, it would be great for Jill and all, but what happens to me? And to my family when I don't come back? Who is going to bring leftover food home from Anne's house? Susan's too old for any tesserae. What if the value of lumber comes plummeting down a fortnight from now?

The world becomes a fuzzy blur to me as Jill and I, after numbly shaking hands, are taken away to the Justice Building.

It's a nice place, almost as nice as the houses in the Victor's Village. There's all these offices with velvet chairs and shinny desks made from polished oak. A carpeted elevator takes me to a floor I've never been on before.

Jill and I are separated, taken down different ends of the hallway.

A peacekeeper opens the door to a small room with a bed, nightstand, and a television. It's like being in an hotel or an inn, I suppose, though I've never really been in one.

Tomorrow, they'll let my family and friends come and say goodbye to me, but it will be a very short farewell, timed by the minute. Then I'll be on the telly again, boarding the train that will take me to the Capitol.

Johanna never turns up to talk to me. I guess I'll see her tomorrow anyway, as we'll be on the same train. But, a little angrily, I can't help wondering if she's only talking to Jill and not me. If she thinks Jill has a better chance of making a go at it in the arena than I do. I mean, sure my fellow tribute's just a little slip of a thing, but I've seen her do archery in physical education at school. Maybe Johanna is going to teach her how to wield an axe on top of that.

More likely, she just went home for the night. Maybe she needed that drink at five instead of five thirty after all.

The sunlight fades, hours tick by.

I'm trapped in the dark because I don't feel like turning on any lights. It feels as if it's been for ever since it was one in the afternoon and I stood beside Anne at the reaping, thinking my name would never get pulled out of that bowl.

Closing my eyes and inhaling deeply, I reach for the remote and turn the telly on. The flashing screen, the sudden glaring light, hurts my eyes as I open them up again.

On almost every channel there's just some picture of Lord Snow's mansion in the Capitol. The only channel with anything on it is the reaping recaps. Highlights. Interesting moments.

In District 12 some middle-aged lanky chap, one of their four living Hunger Games victors, gets drunk and tries to hug Effie Trinket, the woman the Capitol sends to that district. I wonder how drunk a person would have to be to try and embrace Pug. I've seen Johanna get pretty tight before, but I still can't imagine her ever wanting to put her arms around _him_.

In District 5, one tribute is an eighteen year old boy suffering from a disease that dwarfs him. He's smaller than Jill. Much more stocky, though. And there is the start of a blackish-gray beard on his chin. The girl tribute has red hair and a sly, pale face. She's about seventeen and of normal height for her age.

When I see myself, as they begin showing highlights from District 7, I almost vomit. Seeing myself in the reaping makes it that much more real to me. This is truly happening. I'm going to be in an arena with twenty-three other kids whose goal is to kill me. _Great_.

Then they show Anne, sobbing. They get a big close up of her blubbering and everything. I'm sure all of Panem is thinking, "My, what lovely snot she has." Suddenly I'm incredibly embarrassed. I don't want all of Panem to see me as the boy whose rich girlfriend cried crocodile tears when his name got called.

And yet, that's exactly how I look. Nothing else differentiates me from the other tributes. Even Jill has that whole 'pretty little girl' thing going for her. She, along with the little twelve year old girl tributes from Districts 4 and 12, looks sweet and pitiful. It's like they're just waiting from some kindly sponsor to help them beat the odds. I look just like any of the other male tributes.

I am just a boy from an unimportant district in a tweed overcoat. No one is going to think twice about me. I'm never getting out of this.

The voice-over on the telly says something about a surprising out-burst from a previous victor in District 1. Then it prepares to pan over to the girl tribute.

Like I care. As If I want to see the face of another boy and girl who want to kill me. District 2, which they've already shown, was bad enough. Their names were Cato and Clove, and they looked a million times more prepared for this, more excited for the games, than I ever could be. One of them will probably slit my throat on the first day in the arena. District 1 is probably even worse.

Before I can even see what this girl tribute from District 1 looks like, I throw a pillow at the screen, hit mute on the remote, and bury myself under the covers until morning.


	2. Chapter 2: Jill

"Jill Pole!"

I felt my heart fly into my throat when Pug, the man who came from the Capitol every year to select one boy and one girl as tributes for the Hunger Games, called out my name. I'd known, of course, that this was a possibility. My family was poor and I was their only child; there was no one else to sign up for the tesserae. True, it wasn't worth much. What would we do with only a year's supply of grain, oil, flour, and wheat? In the end, however, the real question was, what would we do _without_ it?

It would run out, of course. And then I'd have to sign up for the tesserae again. The problem was it meant, even if I wasn't picked that year, for the 77th annual Hunger Games, the odds were not at all in my favor to avoid being selected the next year.

It's not me, I tried telling myself, standing there in the roped-off space with the other children aged twelve through eighteen. My hands shook violently with cold even though the sun over where we were standing was quite warm.

But, of course, it _was_ me. So I allowed the peacekeepers to take me to the stage, where I stood, looking out at everybody.

In the crowd I had just been taken from, I could see Adela Pennyfather and her friends, who made my life miserable on a daily basis. Their faces were unmoved, but for the first time, they weren't out-right mocking me. Was this what it took to make them leave me alone? Me being chosen to fight to the death on live television? I couldn't help but wonder if any of Them would feel sorry for me as they watched it from the comfort of their homes.

Then they called out the boy's name. _Edmund Martin_.

It took a few moments for me to place him. In fact, until I actually saw the peacekeepers leading him in the direction of the stage, I couldn't put a face to that name. Then, when I recognized him, I felt a little sad. I didn't know him too well, but his sister had helped take care of my father once three or four years ago when he suddenly fell ill. She was still eligible for the Hunger Games back then; it was her last year in the drawing.

I knew it must have been killing her, seeing her younger brother as a tribute for the games. She had been lucky enough, the odds were in her favor, but she couldn't protect him. Poor Susan; there was nothing she could do to stop him from being taken away to the Capitol. She couldn't even volunteer to take his place; she was too old, and not a boy.

I remember, looking out at her standing next to Mr. and Mrs. Martin in the crowd, not too far off from my own parents, wondering if she could-if it weren't impossible-would she take his place? Susan, from the little I knew of her, didn't strike me as much of a fighter. She was a healer, not a warrior. But he was her brother, her own flesh and blood. I didn't have a sibling, so I couldn't quite imagine what it might be like to have that sort of a bond ripped apart. I figured it must be terrible. But, then again, Susan was always so practical minded. Yet, even if they were of the same age and gender, Edmund seemed like the kind of person who would have a better chance of making it out of the arena alive.

Much more so than Susan did. She was practical and gentle. She would have made an excellent nurse or housewife and mother.

Edmund, on the other hand, reminded me a little of Johanna Mason, the only Hunger Games victor in our district who wasn't an adult. They were both dark-haired and their faces kind of had that automatic sardonic expression embedded on them. Something about the way their eyebrows arched, I thought.

"Get off me!" I heard Edmund snap at one of the peacekeepers. I guess they were being too aggressive, pulling him into the limelight.

Someone in the crowd, watching the reaping, chuckled at the way he wrenched himself free from the peacekeepers and cockily took his place on his own, looking out blankly.

I wondered, for a second, if he was looking for his sister. My next thought was one of fear. They _like_ him, I realized, feeling a pang of fear. If he was the district's favorite and I was the one who came back, they weren't going to be too happy. Worse, if they all liked him, the rich folks in the Capitol watching the reapings live right now probably did, too.

Even though I was happy for him, I was scared for myself. We weren't from a district like 1, 2, or 4, and that alone put the odds against both of us. But even if we could break through that, we weren't going to be a team. Our sponsors, going through Johanna, would pick only one of us to bet on, one of us to try and save by sending us food or medicine or whatever else we ended up needing in the arena. And I had the feeling, a sick instinct wadding up like a tight ball in my stomach, heavy as a stone, that it wasn't going to be me.

Not that it mattered. Even if I _was_ the favorite from District 7, I still couldn't win. Sure, I had always been good at archery; I could shoot an arrow straight. I could climb trees and move quietly. I could cover up my tracks. That sounded good, of course, but none of those things were enough. Yes, they were good skills, and I knew I would be glad of them at some point during the games, but they wouldn't keep me from being killed if a bunch of Careers (tributes from 1, 2, and 4 teaming up temporarily) knocked me down and proved better at wrestling and stabbing. I couldn't hide from them for ever.

If Adela Pennyfather's name was pulled out of the bowl instead of mine, what would she have done in my place? Smiled and acted like it didn't bother her? Maybe she would have even plotted to join the Careers. There were tributes that had tried it before, and sometimes they really did let kids from poorer districts into their little makeshift team. But these were always uneasy alliances. So many times I had seen some poor kid get turned on the second something when wrong. They were easy scapegoats.

I was not going to be a scapegoat to a bunch of weapon-wielding Careers. Live or die, I knew it would be something I had to do on my own.

Edmund and I had to shake hands. His hand had a slight feel of cold sweat but his expression was unreadable, bland.

Perhaps his plan was to act bored, like it didn't matter to him either way. He didn't want to be chosen, but he wasn't going to have a fit because he was, either. Not like his girlfriend, easy to spot in the crowd as she was wearing an impossibly bright white satin-and-brocade dress and had started howling the second his name was called, crying loudly enough to drone out an orchestra. Perhaps he figured she had enough big show-tears for the both of them. Or maybe he just wanted to look tough.

Before the peacekeepers could usher me away to the Justice Building, I tried to meet my parents eyes one last time. Why couldn't they save me? Why couldn't Edmund's parents save him? I knew, really. It wasn't allowed. They'd be killed, or worse. I mean, we'd been taught about the reaping laws and the Hunger Games all our lives, but I never could understand it. I still didn't then. It seemed pointlessly cruel.

I wanted my life, aside from Adela Pennyfather and her crew, to go on the way it always had. I felt petty for crying every day over things that seemed so small in comparison to the Hunger Games. I told myself that if I woke up in a minute to find it was all a dream, I would never come home crying again. I would never balk at something my mother asked me to do. I would be more careful. But it wasn't a dream. And by the time I had ridden in the elevator and they'd taken Edmund one way and led me the other, I knew this couldn't possibly be a dream. It was real. A living nightmare.

The room they gave me didn't have much, just a bed, a nightstand, and a television. I noticed that by the remote on the nightstand, there was a box of tissues. Did a lot of girl tributes secretly cry in that room after their names were called during the reaping?

Because I naturally assumed I would be alone till morning when they would let my parents come and say a quick goodbye to me, I was startled by the sound of a fist pounding impatiently at the door around five of the clock.

I'd been sitting on the edge of the bed, playing with a loose thread on the sleeve of my sweater, seeing how hard I could tug on it before it began to unravel. It was a sad game, but better than the one I would soon be forced to play. Safer, too.

The door wasn't locked. My head pounded. "Come in." I was planning on getting up, then changed my mind at the last second.

It swung open and our mentor (Edmund's and mine) came in.

Johanna looked tired and rather frustrated, like my room in the Justice Building was the the last place she wanted to be.

The way she stared me up and down didn't exactly make me feel all cocksure that she would want to get me good sponsors for the games.

I knew what she was seeing.

Finally this was an expression from somebody who would be involved in whatever was left of my life before and during the games that I could understand.

She thought I was too little. Too slight. Small and weak.

Probably that was what Edmund thought too. I wondered if he was planning how to bump me off quickly, just like all the other tributes would be.

For the first time I felt true anger. Not at the Capitol, not at my parents or myself, not at Pug for pulling out my name, but at the other contestants; and my mentor.

Yes, they could beat me in strength, but I'd like to see one of them walk six minutes in the woods without snapping a single twig underfoot.

Up till that moment, I was sure I was going to die. Seeing Johanna in front of me, in the light of the lamp by the bed, I wanted to prove her-and everybody else-wrong. Not so much win as not die straight off. Like I knew they were expecting.

Then, surprisingly, Johanna's face broke out into the smallest hint of a smile. It might have been a grimace, but for some reason I wanted to think positively while still feeling cross with her at the same time.

"Are you a fast runner?" she asked, after a long, long pause.

I nodded. "Sure."

"You're awful tiny," she said. "Can you lift an axe?"

I shrugged. "I don't know." I had never tried, even though, like most men in District 7, my father chopped down trees for a living and there had always been one or two axes just lying around the house for as long as I could remember.

"Stand up." She tapped her foot on the floor.

I did so, grudgingly.

Johanna circled around me. "Best get used to it," she told me. "When you're in the Capitol, you're almost always going to be in the public eye. If you don't like me circling around you, how are you going to deal with your stylist?"

I can handle it, I thought, gritting my teeth. Why had she come? To give me pointers? To laugh at me because of my size?

"You have skills?"

"I can shoot," I admitted.

She didn't say anything for a moment.

"An arrow," I explained. "I can shoot an arrow...with a bow..."

"I know what you meant," she snapped. "I'm not stupid."

"The bigger tributes can't hurt me without catching me first," I said, glaring at her. I disliked the way she kept looking at me.

Something in my tone must have impressed her. "Look at me," she ordered. "Stare right into my eyes, don't blink, and see how long you can keep it up."

I fixed my gaze on her face. She wasn't pretty, exactly, but for a moment I could see why viewers, especially in the Capitol, were so enamored of her during her Hunger Games, why her sponsors would have been interested in seeing her win. There was this strength about her, and I sensed she was trying to find a likeness to it in my face before deciding whether or not to consider me a lost cause.

And I wasn't about to give her reason to.

Cloth rustled and I knew, without moving my head or shifting my gaze, that Johanna was stripping off her blouse and pleated skirt.

I didn't move my eyes from her face.

Finally, she nodded and turned away from me.

I looked at the wall behind her while she pulled up her skirt and straightened her open blouse.

"Good," she said. "That tells me something."

I wrinkled my nose. Taking off her clothes and challenging me to a staring contest showed her something? Something that would help her decide? I didn't fully understand.

"You know how to turn a blind eye when you need to," she explained, her voice still gruff but a little less condescending. "You aren't going to stop and stare at the first bleeding tribute you see writhing on the arena ground in pain. And you can follow orders. You did what I told you. Do the same thing in the games and you might actually live long enough not to embarrass our district."

If the difference between not breaking eye-contact and frowning in confusion at Johanna Mason's half-naked body and demanding what in the world she was doing had been a life or death situation, I would have survived.

But the comparison almost frightened me. Could I really turn a blind eye to someone in pain? A naked body, someone trying to see if I'd squirm or act prudish, willingly show that I was intimated, was one thing. Ignoring stupidity is all right. I could do that on a daily basis. But to look away from someone dying... And, yet, that's what I knew I'd have to do if I wanted to live.

If I wanted to... _win_...?

"Do yourself a favor," said Johanna, fastening the last button on her blouse and motioning over at the television with her chin. "Watch the reaping recaps for the other districts. Try to desensitize yourself to them. Imagine shooting them, or running away from them, or dropping something on their heads. Put their faces in your mind, then wash them out, remembering only the parts of them that threaten you."

I didn't like the thought of forcing myself to hate twenty-two kids, some of whom had probably been as scared at their reaping today as I was at mine, but truth be told, I was planning on watching the recaps anyway. I was curious. I wanted to see who else was out there, in the same unfortunate situation as me, what they looked like. I wanted to know if their faces would be as bland as Edmund's had been. If so, would I be the only openly terrified tribute staring out at the people in the Capitol this year? Would they peg me as the coward? The odd (sad) face out? It worked for Johanna. Everybody in Panem knew how she won.

I fully expected Johanna to go and see Edmund next, but later I found out, in passing, that she never did. Perhaps she already felt like she understood him, only I was almost as much a mystery to her as the other tributes were to me. We'd never spoken before that day. Crossed paths only occasionally. She needed to know what Pug's slip of the finger in that bowl had saddled her with.

In a way, I could almost respect her for that.

After she was gone, I turned on the television.

I remember feeling tired after watching a recap of a dark-faced boy and girl from District 11 standing on stage. The girl stood out to me. Firstly, because she almost looked like she was going to cry, her lower lip trembling uncontrollably and, secondly, because, before the peacekeepers could grasp her elbows and pull her up on stage, she handed a silky-furred monkey over to somebody standing behind her. It had been sitting on her shoulders when her name was called. I had never seen anyone with a pet monkey before that. So I shouldn't have been surprised when my eyelids drooped when they showed highlights from districts 8 and 9. Yet, I was furious with myself when I realized I'd almost been asleep.

What I saw next captured my attention so completely that I didn't even have to pinch myself to make sure I didn't doze off again.

"There was a surprising out-burst today in District 1," said an announcers high-pitched voice. "It occurred right after the first tribute's name was called."

On screen, they showed footage of a girl maybe a year older than me, slowly walking towards the stage. Her face had gone all pale and her blue eyes were open very wide.

Timidly, she accepted the hand of the peacekeeper closest to her, stretching out her own violently shaking wrist.

"Up you go," he said, giving her a little nudge towards the stairs.

That was when one of the previous District 1 victors, all sitting, a rather generous number of them, in a row on the stage, just like Johanna and the others had here in 7, completely lost his head.

He leapt up to his feet and looked at the girl, then out at the crowd, as if the world itself was crumbling down all around him.

"No!" he shouted at the top of his voice.

If what they showed was any indication, you could have heard a pin drop after the scream erupted from his throat.

I thought for a moment that there were tears in the boy's eyes and I realized that he wasn't old. He was young; he had about a year on Edmund's sister at best. His Hunger Games had been recent. It wasn't a year that stuck out to me in particular, but his face became increasingly familiar. Rather handsome. Blonde. And blue-eyed, just like the girl tribute he was screaming, "No!" in reaction to. I'd watched this Career boy win. Doubtless, I'd seen him kill countless children. And still I felt so sorry for him. Simply because I saw those tears. I saw them clear as day for that one fleeting second.

The camera quickly moved back to wide-shot, as if they didn't want anyone to look too closely at the raw emotion on his face, but I had already seen and I knew probably everybody else in Panem had, too.

Everybody in District 1 stared at him in utter shock and disbelief, including the girl tribute.

Somebody hissed, loudly enough for one of the microphones to pick it up, "Sit down!"

Regaining control of himself, he did so, but his face was buried in his hands for a long, long while.

The camera kept cutting him out of the picture, but every once in a while it messed up and caught his huddled up, despairing image, slumped over in his chair as if he was suddenly an old, old man with nothing left to live for.

The announcers and reporters all joked about how he hadn't wanted someone related to him to steal all the Hunger Games glory.

I knew that was a lie, though. He didn't want her in the arena, whoever she was, however she was related to him, because he wanted her _alive_. I didn't know how I knew it so intensely, with no question to motives, but I did. It must have been the unshed tears I'd seen before the camera panned out. He loved this girl more than anything. He loved her and the Capitol was taking her away from him, most likely for ever.

That wasn't the kind of thing that happened too often in the wealthier districts. Not in the least. They were Career-stock, it was an _honour_ for them. Everything we, in 7, _pretended_ to love about the games every year, they truly _did_.

Here I had been expecting to be the only tribute with a visible emotion, clear fear. That wasn't the case. I thought they would all be bland. Proud, even. I was not expecting this.

I barely acknowledged the boy tribute from 1, except to think, briefly, that he was, well, terribly puny. My age, maybe, but smaller. And that was saying a lot. Especially for a Career boy.

I did notice that the blue-eyed girl tribute and the boy related to her who'd interrupted the reaping by shouting both looked at him and shook their heads, almost simultaneously, as if they couldn't believe it. As if to say, in their minds where the Capitol couldn't hear, "Oh, not him, _too_!"

The camera couldn't zoom out fast enough. The announcers were making jokes by the bucket-load, reminding us viewers not to cry, not to feel pity. It was only a game. A fun game. And only an act. Nothing to be alarmed about.

If that wasn't shocking enough, something similar happened in District 12. Some girl with a pretty name, Primrose something or other, who turned out to be a little blonde twelve-year-old in the reaping bowl for the first time, came up on stage with the back of her shirt not properly tucked in, forming an odd, duck-tail sort of shape.

There were only four victors for that district, and they all watched her with open mouths.

The girl victor with a long braid running down her back jumped up, and for a moment it looked like the makings of another out-burst which would surely upset the Capitol. But then she fainted. A blonde boy and a scruffy drunk man who had previously been trying to hug the woman whose hand had pulled little Primrose's name out of the reaping bowl caught her in their out-stretched arms. The only other victor, a blonde woman the same age as the drunk man, bit her lower lip so hard a drop of ruby-red blood appeared on it.

How was it, I wondered in amazement, that two such different districts could have such similar scenes?

Love that the Capitol propaganda couldn't fully hide.

I was supposed to be hating these people, because they weren't from District 7, and they wanted to kill me. Only I didn't. I didn't even hate Edmund. I almost wished we could be a team. I didn't want to be so alone. I wondered how he felt if he was watching this in his room at the same time. Did he buy the announcer's pathetic attempts at patched-up humour?

Or did he, like me, wonder how he was possibly supposed to want to kill these people and win a prize for it?

Yes, I know. Somebody else was bound to kill them first. There _were_ twenty-four of us. I wouldn't necessarily be the one shooting arrows through their skulls (if the gamemakers even _had_ a bow and arrows in the arena this year).

But a Career tribute who didn't look deadly? Who didn't want to be there, killing left right and centre? A Career with a handsome victor relative waiting at home for her, not to give her congratulations, but simply to put his arms around her, hold her close and whisper, "It's all right, you're safe now. It's over. You did it. I've got you now"?

Unheard of!

The District 2 tributes looked more like they were supposed to. Good-looking and smooth, and proud, glad to be on that stage. Grinning ear to ear. I wished I'd seen them first (their recaps _were_ actually already on earlier, just before they showed District 1's out-burst, but I missed them due to accidentally sitting on the remote and changing the channel over to a picture of Lord Snow's mansion in the Capitol), because, even though I was looking at them, I was still seeing the boy from 1 that screamed out and the girl from 12 that fainted.

Unable to watch any more, I turned the television off.

I decided, in the morning, I would tell Johanna I had seen the whole thing. It was a lie, of course. That was wrong. I'd always been taught it was. But I guessed I had to get used to that. To saying things that weren't true. Especially to myself.

Because from then on, I knew it would be pools of crazed 'entertaining' emotions, some real and some fake.

And just like I had never taken my eyes off of Johanna's face when she stripped down almost to nothing, I had to keep my eyes straight ahead for the Hunger Games. Even if I blinked and lost, I wouldn't turn my eyes away from what everyone expected me to look at.

Not until they closed of their own accord.


	3. Chapter 3: Edmund

I'm sitting in the office they've put me in for my family and friends to come and say goodbye to me, waiting for the peacekeepers to bring the first person in.

That's how it works. They bring those who want to see you before you're taken to the Capitol in, one at a time, then they drag them out if they overstay their timed welcome by so much as a bloody half-minute.

My father comes in first. He cracks his knuckles and clears his throat a lot, like he doesn't know what to say. But it's all right, he doesn't need to say anything. I know he's not glad my name was drawn to go to the Capitol. I know, suddenly, and surprisingly, that if he could, if he was young again-my age-he would volunteer in my place. I was not expecting this. But he's so open, more open than I've ever seen him.

Before I can get too choked up, the peacekeepers are taking him away.

I bite my lower lip as Mum comes in, her eyes rimmed with red. Her hands, in which she holds a knitted dark blue blanket and a scarf of the same colour, are shaking.

Seemingly out of nowhere, I'm overcome with the desire to sob, "Mummy!" and throw myself into her arms. But I'm fifteen years old, for pity's sake, I remind myself, instantly suppressing the urge and sitting up a little straighter in my chair, pressing my feet firm and flat on the floor. I am not a little boy anymore. I don't care if the cameras aren't on me right this second, I am going to be mature about this, dash it!

"Hello, Mum," I manage, sounding as flat as a voice coming out of a machine.

Her chin quivers. "I made the scarf for your father, out of what I had left over from the blanket." She puts the blanket and scarf down in my lap. "But I thought you might need it more. I...I hear it can be cold inside of the train cars."

"Thanks," I say, as she bends down and gives me a quick hug.

She plants a kiss on my cheek then leaves just before a peacekeeper can begin clearing his throat pointedly to tell her it's time to go.

Next, it's Susan.

She's the worst yet. My chest aches when I see her walk in. I know she probably hasn't slept all night. This is one of her worst fears come to life. And even though it's not really my fault, even though I had no control over it, I'm sorry. I'm just so, so sorry. I felt like I've hurt her. Almost as if this is all a punishment for not being good enough. I know that makes no sense, but it's how I feel.

Susan was always so perfect. Growing up, everybody was always saying things like, "Why can't you be more like your sister, Ed?" It used to make me so mad. Now, I'm glad she's perfect and that our parents still have her, even if they lose me. And I know, more than ever, that even though she drove me crazy, nagging me on a daily basis, my elder sister really has, all along, loved me for all of my imperfections. She's loved me for everything I'm not as well as everything I am. She's like a second mother to me, despite the fact that there's only six years difference between us.

I stand up, my knees feeling wobbly.

Susan throws her arms around me and holds me close. "Be careful." That's all she says.

She pulls away from me and walks out with the peacekeepers. She doesn't look back, not even once, but I catch a glimpse of her profile and I see that her hand is pressed against her mouth.

Her last two words to me, maybe for ever, ring in my ears for several seconds.

The next person who comes in is Anne, blowing her nose dramatically into a handkerchief almost big enough to double as a picnic blanket or small tablecloth.

I grit my teeth. Only a few minutes, I think, and the peacekeepers will drag her out of here. This knowledge comforts me, somehow.

"Oh, _Edmund_!" she blubbers, holding out her hand.

I notice that the gold bird-with-an-arrow-in-his-mouth pin that she was wearing on her dress yesterday is now in her clenched fist.

Slowly, she opens her fingers and makes this big speech about how she wants me to wear the pin in the arena. (Every tribute is allowed to wear, or sometimes even carry, one thing from their district into the Hunger Games arena, be it a ring, necklace, or small hand-held object. The only rule is it cannot be something you can use as a weapon.) "You _will_ wear it, won't you?"

The arch of her light eyebrows seems more threatening than imploring, and it makes me cross. I'm tired of doing what everyone tells me to do. I get it from my parents and Susan (or, I did, before yesterday's reaping when the world stopped spinning), I get it from the government ('go to the reaping every blasted year', 'don't say anything bad about the Capitol _ever_ or else', 'go to the Justice Building, you're a tribute now', 'get ready to die on public television'), and I don't need any more of it from _Anne_.

I'm sick of doing more or less everything my bossy girlfriend says.

But there _is_ one little problem I'm forced to take into account. "How long will it take to talk you out of giving me that?"

Anne frowns. "Longer than we've got." She gestures over at the peacekeepers.

"Fine," I sigh, opening my hand. "Give it here."

She looks like she's about to drop it into my palm, but she changes her mind and pins it to the front of my tweed overcoat (same one as I was wearing yesterday at the reaping) instead. I bet she's thinking about how much better I'll look once a stylist from the Capitol gets hold of me. She still hates the coat, I can tell. Which makes me want to wear it even more. I'd wear it for the opening ceremonies and the interview if they'd let me. Which, of course, I know they won't.

"I'll be watching you every minute you're on," promises Anne, leaning forward and kissing me once very quickly on the lips before the peacekeepers ( _finally_ ) start to lead her away.

"All right," I say dryly.

Over her shoulder, in the doorway with the peacekeepers, she calls back, "Oh, and _do_ remember to say my name on the telly, Edmund, when they ask you about your life here in District 7."

I grunt dismissively. How has _my_ pre-Hunger Games television interview, the one that's supposed to get viewers interested in _my_ well-being in the arena, magically become 'ode to Anne Featherstone'?

"And I just want to say, for the rest of my life, I will always-" she begins, swallowing hard, still not budging from the doorway.

One of the peacekeepers looks at me, then back at her, then at me again, pleadingly.

I know what he's suggesting. What he wants to do. I nod enthusiastically, and he slams the door shut in Anne's face, cutting her off. I guess I'll never know just what it was she meant to say. But I'm all right with that.

I only have one more visitor after Anne. Someone I wasn't expecting. Tumnus. He comes in, walking that funny way he always does, says shortly that he is going to miss me, and holds out a small rectangular object messily wrapped in crinkly silver-and-red paper that shimmers when the light in the office flickers slightly.

"I wrapped it myself," he tells me, putting his hands modestly behind his back now that I am holding his gift.

"I can tell," I say. I don't really mean to be sarcastic, but that's how it comes out sounding.

He smiles faintly.

I quickly unwrap it, tearing at the paper with my fingernails. It's a book. Gray cover. Dark blue spine, almost the same shade as the blanket and scarf from Mum. A mystery novel of the sort I like to check out of the library when I get the chance.

The fact that Tumnus has, not only noticed this, but was also willing enough to part with one of his precious books because he thought it might give me a moment of pleasure, something to smile about before I'm trapped in a cruel game, fighting for my life, is enough to bring the tears I have been fighting against right up into my eyes. Two, then four, escape and run down my cheeks at lightning speed before I can stop them.

"Please go," I croak out, feeling choked up, not looking as the peacekeepers drag him away.

It's not until he's gone and it's too late to call him back, that I realize I forgot to say thank you. I hope he understands, that he doesn't think I'm an ungrateful brat.

If I get a chance, I'll read the book on the train, I promise myself. For Tumnus.

The ride to the train station is short and silent. Right by my side, in the seat next to me, is my fellow tribute Jill Pole, but for the lack of acknowledgment we give each other, we might as well be a million miles apart. This is probably for the best. That we aren't friends. That Johanna, sitting shotgun with the driver, doesn't expect us to talk.

As far as Johanna goes, though, I'm still unsure. And a bit angry that she didn't come see me yesterday after the reaping. If I knew all along she wasn't going to help my family when things got rough, how can I possibly expect her to help me now? I wish another one of District 7's victors was coming along with us as a mentor, even though I don't know any of them personally.

Tributes can have as many mentors as they want, provided they volunteer their services and there are actually enough past Hunger Games victors in their district to make it worthwhile. The handful in 7 is hardly impressive, but if they weren't so lazy, so selfish, maybe at least one more would be here now, instead of just her. But I still have to stay on her good side. It could easily come down to life or death. And, slim as I worry my chances of winning and getting out of this are, I'd prefer life.

There are so many reporters at the train station, swarming the car as Jill and I get out, that I almost forget to breathe for a moment.

One of them screams my name and waves at me like we're best friends. "Edmund, old chap! Edmund Martin! Aw, come on! Talk to me, mate. How does it feel to be a contestant in the 77th Hunger Games?" I pretend not to hear. It's not like I would know which microphone to talk into even if I _did_ want to say something. Which of course I don't.

A female reporter in impossibly high heels elbows her way through the dense crowd and shouts, "Jill Pole, look this way! Give us a smile."

Jill almost looks, but Johanna elbows her, signaling for her to just keep on moving towards the train while staring straight ahead.

About two dozen camera flashes go off in my face at once, nearly blinding me.

Somehow I manage to get onto the train without causing injury to myself or others in spite of my vision being impaired and little purple blobs I seriously hope are not permanent floating around in front of me.

"I hate reporters. They're so bloody nosy," sighs Johanna once the train starts moving and we're being led down a narrow passageway to the dining car. (None of us have eaten yet today.)

"Hah-loo!" bellows an all too familiar voice.

"Oh no," I moan. It's Pug, from the reaping; I know it's Pug. This means he's traveling with us. Oh joy. My misery is now complete.

"Well," he says, trotting alongside as, his metal jewelry clanging together, "seems like we got ourselves a sweet gel and a nice young gentleman."

I scowl at him.

"Looking forward to seeing the Capitol?"

Neither Jill nor I answer.

He doesn't seem to notice, he just prattles on and on, even as we take our seats and glossy leather-cased menus with gold-leaf lettering are put into our hands by servers dressed in white-and-black uniforms.

Some powder-faced lady Pug knows but we don't comes and sits with us. In under two minutes he's ignoring us three entirely and talking only to the lady. We don't mind. I'm delighted he's found someone _else_ to annoy with his pointless chatter.

"Now, dah-ling," he says to his ugly lady friend, "what _was_ that funny little nickname my old father used to call your great aunt?"

Just for the fun of it, I interject, "Shameless hussy?"

"That's the one!" he says, pointing over at me, not paying attention to what I actually just said, not even wondering how I would know what his father called her great aunt in the first place. Then he furrows his brow, comprehension slowly dawning somewhere deep inside that small brain of his. "No, wait, that's actually _not_ the one..."

Johanna chuckles, amused.

The servers take our orders and come back in five minutes with plates full of food so well-arranged they nearly appear fake.

The big fluffy stack of pancakes they put in front of me is flawless. I wonder how on earth they managed to keep the butter in one lump, seemingly not melting at all. Suddenly I miss Susan's old burnt attempts at breakfast and feel sorry for the times I made fun of her, snorting that she couldn't cook or bake to save her life, eating everything I knew she'd prepared like I was afraid it would kill me, even when she improved to the point where she became a better cook than our mother.

The bacon on Jill's plate is so idealistic looking I half-expect it to be made of plastic. But she bites into it and proves it's real meat.

Pug remarks on our table manners. Coming from him, this seems pretty lame to me. So when he says, "I like how you're both so proper, no finger-licking. The last tributes from 7 licked the maple syrup right off their fingers. At least you both have sense enough to use a napkin," I deliberately put down my knife and fork, grind my index finger and thumb into the sticky syrup on my plate and stuff them into my mouth, sucking on them as loudly as I can, just to irk him.

Jill giggles, then stops and looks down at her plate when Pug's lady friend glares meanly at her.

When we're finished eating, Johanna tells me to follow an attendant who will show me to my compartment.

My compartment is so fancy that it makes the Justice Building look like a dumpy shack in comparison.

My bunk, though it's built into the wall, has the thickest mattress I've ever seen on top of it, and somehow there's still enough room so that I won't bump my head if I sit up suddenly. I have my own lavatory and dressing room (what I'm supposed to do with a private dressing room on a train I'll only be on for one day is a mystery to me, but I have one nonetheless). And, of course, I have a flat-screen, high-definition television. I can watch the tributes from other districts board their trains, thanks to the reporters that no doubt flocked around them, too. I'm sure 1, 2, and 4 got a lot of coverage.

I spend several hours just reading the book Tumnus gave me, but after a bit I decide to turn on the telly. Perhaps, if I'm lucky, there will be something- _anything_ -on besides the other tributes.

The odds are still not in my favor. One hundred channels, and ninety-nine of them are Lord Snow's mansion paired with really bad background music.

I don't see the tributes from District 1 boarding their train. I miss them (for the second time, now) because I find a knot in my shoelace and untangle it. When I look back up at the screen, I catch only a glimpse of their mentor, a previous District 1 victor. He's a tall, blonde chap.

I don't expect to, but I recognize him. I remember watching the Hunger Games the year he won. He didn't do as much killing as you would expect from a District 1 tribute, but that's not why I remember him so well.

There are two reasons his face doesn't blur with that of tributes from other years, why he stands out to me.

One of these reasons is because, that year, Susan innocently remarked, after seeing his pre-Hunger Games interview, that she thought he was handsome, and I, of course, teased her mercilessly. Pretty much all the usual childish nonsense: "Susan has a boyfriend...ha ha..." etc. I even told her she should have bet money on him, seeing as he won. She told me to shut up.

The other reason, the thing I think he's probably more widely remembered for, is what he said when he had a close call in the arena, almost being killed by another Career boy after all the poorer districts' tributes had already been bumped off.

The boy had him pinned down and was about to slit his throat with this huge steel knife, and he cried out, "Lucy, stop watching! Lucy, please don't watch this! _Lucy_!"

It created quite a stir because there was no one in the arena with that name. It wasn't another tribute hiding somewhere nearby he was calling out to. He'd been talking to someone from home, from his own district, watching the Hunger Games. Whoever this Lucy person was, he didn't want her to see the actual moment he was killed. Nobody's done that, directly addressed someone outside of the arena during the Hunger Games, before or since.

I've always assumed Lucy was his girlfriend or something. He never talked about her in any of his televised interviews, so probably nobody outside of his district knows for sure who she is. But I can't imagine shouting for _Anne_ to stop watching if I was in his place. If a Career boy was about to slice my neck open, Anne Featherstone would be the last thing on my mind.


	4. Chapter 4: Jill

"It all must go," she said, shaking her head, lifting up a thick spiral-shaped lock of my hair. "So much... _too_ much... Most of it must go."

Standing shivering and completely naked (except for the silver ring on my thumb that would be my token in the arena) in a room somewhere in the Remake Center, I bit down on my lower lip as hard as I possibly could without breaking the skin.

It's only hair, I told myself; but it was no use.

It didn't matter how many times I repeated in my mind that it would grow back, that it wasn't something alive, utterly unimportant.

In the Hunger Games I would be lucky not to lose half my face, or a limb, never-mind my _hair_.

And yet I couldn't stop feeling the urge to cry.

I remembered my mother (who had pin-straight hair) struggling to comb it out every morning, quite at a loss for what to do about keeping curls neat. Father (it was more or less his hair I had) could offer only a little help, since his hair had never been long, always cropped very short, almost so much that his curls made little impression.

It would have been the easiest thing in the world to just hack off all my hair when I was five or six, but my mother wouldn't, or couldn't. She loved it too much. It was too pretty for scissors, she used to say, picking out my tangles; even matted and unruly as it was when I first got out of bed, even the time Adela Pennyfather stuck a wad of sticky chewing gum in it, she never considered cutting it.

We, mother and I, considered it a victory when we'd figured out all the best ways to manage my hair, and without any of the professional help people from the wealthier districts, or the Capitol, had.

Edith Jackle, one of Adela's little hang-on, tale-bearing friends, used to say I was a show-off, the way I always tossed my head back so that my curls slapped my waist; and maybe I was, a little bit, but only because I was proud I'd never had to cut it, not because I wanted to make anybody jealous.

What _would_ my mother think when she saw all our hard work gone at the opening ceremonies early this evening? I wondered brokenly.

To keep myself from crying, I tried to remember that one moment when I'd been just the tiniest bit truly excited to be there in the Capitol. When the train had pulled in. Even Edmund, looking out the window, had held his breath.

From a distance, the shimmering buildings, all mansions and sky-scrapers, looked splendid.

For a second I had honestly forgotten what I was there for. And I'd been happy. I'd been wholly apprehensive and dazzled.

But now the dazzle was gone, though a very different, more resentful, kind of apprehension remained.

The room was cold, all multicoloured tile and twisted looking-glasses, and I wanted to be home by the fireplace with my parents, warm, fully clothed, long-haired, and safe.

"Ouch!" I cried out as Venia, a woman with her hair dyed a vivid shade of aquamarine, pulled back whatever the hot sticky thing she'd stuck to my legs a second ago was, while Octavia (whose skin had this queer, greenish hue to it), the one who'd been plotting to chop off my curls, suddenly grabbed my hand as if she was trying to comfort me.

"Oh poor ducky!" she said in what I guess was supposed to be a comforting tone. "When was the last time you waxed or shaved your legs, Poppet?"

"I'm _thirteen_ ," I snorted indignantly. I knew that wasn't really an excuse; Edith Jackle had been shaving since she was eleven. But in my defense, I was poor, had more important things on my mind than what age I should start scrapping the hair off my legs with a sharp object, and my hair, head and body, was a much lighter shade than Edith's.

They exchanged a glance, as if pitying me.

Suddenly I wondered if they were rich; whether or not it was against the rules for them to sponsor me because they worked for my stylist (who hadn't made an appearance yet, letting his funny-coloured helpers smooth out some of the rough spots first). I couldn't remember anything in the rules against that. If they liked me, maybe they could help me in the arena.

So, even though it made me feel a bit pathetic, I changed my tune. I acted like the poor little girl who didn't know how to do her make-up or get excess hair off of her body and was utterly amazed by all they had to say about it.

Of course, part of it wasn't acting. I really _didn't_ know much about make-up or waxing. Still, most of my delight in their tips was put-on. After all, why would I even want to look like _them_? Green skin and blue hair? The thought made my nose wrinkle involuntarily.

What really _did_ interest me, was the clothes. The tributes often wore beautiful clothes, even full-out striking costumes, during their interviews. Of course, sometimes a stylist would obviously have too little imagination or else far too much and come up with some hideous design (Johanna Mason, for example, had had to wear a really creepy-looking tree costume for _her_ Hunger Games opening ceremonies), and I hoped against hope that my outfit, whatever it ended up being, would at least feel nice to wear.

But I hadn't seen any clothes yet. They'd taken away all of _mine_. And given me nothing but a dressing-gown which they refused to let me cover myself with while they were 'fixing me'.

 _Rip!_ I cried out again. Was having hairless legs really worth this?

Finally, after what seemed like for ever, Venia announced she was done waxing and started slathering on some gooey cream all over my calves.

Octavia told me to stand still and snapped open a pair of scissors.

I gritted my teeth, watching sadly as the tiles by my feet filled with light brown curls. One particularly large curl landed softly on my bare right foot, tickling it lightly.

By the time she finished, my hair was up to my shoulder-blades, still curling thickly but only at the tips, and I had wavy bangs which could be pinned to the side or else brushed neatly out into the front.

Tired of being plucked and pulled at, I forced myself to put my head on one side in this horridly idiotic fashion (it was embarrassing, and I hated thinking about it afterward) that I had seen grown-ups in District 7 melt at when it was done by small, particularly cute, school-aged children. Because I was petite and didn't really look my age, I was sure I could manage it.

"Can't I meet my stylist yet?" I understood that they wouldn't like me much if I whined, complaining that I was sick of being practically skinned alive and was more than ready to just get _on_ , as I felt like doing, so I made it sound like my curiosity was becoming too much for me to handle.

They fell for it. The two of them instantly became extra sweet in their voices, saying how adorable I was, and how they were so glad to have such a good-hearted, even-tempered girl tribute placed in their care for once.

I wondered how they could call me 'good-hearted' when all I'd done was make big eyes at them and cock my head a lot. Any child, particularly a small female one, could have done it. Adela Pennyfather, or any of her friends, with a little effort, could have pulled it off just as smoothly.

They might have even done it better than me. I had seen the way they acted whenever teachers caught them doing something they weren't supposed to. I knew how they became grown-up's pets.

It sickened me to think I was being like Them, but I didn't see what else I could do. I didn't like taking advantage of two stupid Capitol-bred women, but I didn't want to go into the arena without even the slightest chance of someone who mattered in this place caring about whether or not I lived or died.

And they were so easy; more overtly childlike than I was, or pretended to be.

They really did want to make me pretty. They honestly thought they were doing me a favor.

Only, what would being pretty matter when I was covered in blood, fighting for my life?

They'll have to catch me first, I reminded myself for what felt like the thousandth time. If the other tributes couldn't catch me, they couldn't kill me.

If there were a lot of trees, maybe I could zip in and out of them, into places the others couldn't reach. Edmund, from my district, was bulkier than me. And, from what I'd seen on television, excepting the twelve-year-olds from 4 and 12 and the puny boy and the blue-eyed girl from 1, so were most of the other tributes. I hoped the puny boy, since he was so small, wasn't a fast runner. If he was, that, teamed with the fact that he was a Career tribute, wouldn't bode well for me in the arena.

But I knew I was being a terrible hypocrite as well as a manipulator. I could inwardly scoff at Venia and Octavia for thinking I wasn't 'pretty' enough, how shallow they were, and yet I still found my thoughts drifting to what I would be wearing.

I could be about to die very, very soon, and, all the same, I was worried about getting an ugly outfit for the opening ceremonies.

How different was I from them, _really_? I thought, guiltily. If I had been born in the Capitol, would I have been just like that? Would I have _liked_ the Hunger Games? Would I want to dye _my_ hair the colour of reflective water?

"Here he is, Poppet!" They clapped their hands together excitedly as the door opened and the stylist walked in, knowing I'd been so 'eager' to meet him.

Their misplaced happiness for me made my stomach ache. "How do you do?" I mumbled, starting down at my feet. My toes were turning a little blue, I noticed.

I let my eyes drift upwards and was mortified.

Octavia and Venia looked so bizarre, very different from anyone else I'd ever known, and also they were female, so it didn't bother me too much, them seeing me naked. It annoyed me, of course, but it didn't make my cheeks go all hot and whatever hair was left on my body stand up on edge.

My stylist, however, was a man and, especially for a Capitol-bred person, he looked so _normal_.

His skin was roughly the colour of burnt cinnamon and his eyes were green. Both looked natural, not surgically enhanced. Of course, the gold around his eyes wasn't natural; but it was eyeliner, lightly applied, not tattoos. He was dressed in a black shirt and black trousers.

If I had been able to look at him directly, I might have recognized him from a television interview in the past.

"I'm Cinna," he said softly, seeming to notice how uncomfortable I was. "You must be Jill Pole."

The way he said my name, like I was a real person before I was a Hunger Games' tribute from District 7, made me feel surprisingly warm in the cold room. Almost as if I'd found a real friend in that mad, lonely place.

"What if you put on your dressing-gown, and we have a talk?"

I nodded, accepting this offer at once.

Momentarily forgetting my 'sweet little girl' act, I all but snatched the dressing-gown out of Venia's instantly out-stretched hand, throwing my arms through and tying it securely around myself.

Cinna pushed on the side of a mirror and it gave way, turning into a door. Beyond it, was a warm sitting room with sofas and pillows and thick shaggy crimson rugs that felt good under my frigid toes as I tread down on them.

All he had to do was press a button and a table appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, with an orange chicken and crab-mash meal elegantly arranged on it.

My stomach growled. "It looks delicious."

"The chicken here is very good," he assured me, sitting down.

I sat down across from him. "My hair was long when I came in here," I found myself blurting out.

"I wish they hadn't cut it," he said kindly. "I'm sure it was lovely just the way it was. I had a tribute come in with all these braids once. Beautiful braids. Her mother did them. Venia and Octavia wanted to take them apart, but they hadn't done so before I came in and I told them not to."

If only he'd turned up sooner. "Well, it's their job, I suppose." I picked up my fork and slid the silver-plated points down into the orange-sauce covered skin of the chicken. "And yours. That's why you're here." A sigh escaped me. "To make me look Capitol-pretty, right?"

Cinna shook his head. "No, you've got it quite wrong. I'm here to help you make an impression."

"Is this your first year with a tribute from District 7?" I asked, bringing a piece of chicken to my mouth and savoring the flavor. Swallowing, I added. "They saddled you with me?"

"No, I _asked_ for 7." He frowned just the slightest bit. "Just like I asked for 12 my first couple of years here. This year, I decided I wanted 7."

"Because of all the trees?"

"I _like_ trees," he said firmly, grinning. "In recent years there's been so much wasted artistic potential for 7 and its trees."

I wondered if he was thinking about Johanna Mason's unfortunate tree costume.

Then I focused in on what I was eating. The chicken was delicious, but the crab was heavenly. I wondered why we couldn't have fine foods like this in 7. I wondered if perhaps the richer families, the ones I never saw, aside from their children occasionally at school, _did_. My next thought was that maybe tributes from District 4 ate lots of crab. They were mostly fishermen, after all. Then again, I didn't trip over piles of wood and paper in my house, _my_ district's specialty.

Talking to Cinna remained easy. Somehow he made sure of it. He asked me about home, and I asked him about the Capitol to be polite. I couldn't help wanting to be polite to him. Even though he was rich, I didn't even consider trying to make a sponsor out of him. I knew he'd see right through it and I didn't want him to despise me.

Mostly, though, we talked about clothes. Naturally. And I nearly jumped out of my skin when I realized _he'd_ designed the beautiful fake-fire cape I'd seen a girl from 12 wearing the year before last, during the 75th Hunger Games. The man was a genius! The fire had looked so real. In fact, if the girl hadn't been free from burns, showing no signs of being roasted under that gorgeous cape, I wouldn't have believed it _wasn't_.

That was also when it hit me that the girl victor from 12 with the long braid, the one who'd been televised fainting at the reaping, was in fact Panem's 'girl on fire', courtesy of Cinna's brilliant design.

How I hadn't figured out who she was sooner I couldn't fathom. My best guess was that I'd been so preoccupied with that Primrose tribute she'd fainted for, thinking about how similar their overt pain was to that of the blue-eyed past victor and girl tribute from 1.

Some hours later, I was standing, naked again, with Venia and Octavia fusing over getting some strange frilly undergarments on me.

They weren't uncomfortable, just odd. I had never even worn a slip under any of my school dresses before, and none of my underwear from home went down to my _knees._ There were even a couple of hooks that Venia had to fasten and six rows of stringy white lace, sort of like a boot lace but nicer and with a smoother texture, that Octavia had to tie into all these little looped bows.

When Cinna came back in with my dress, I was told to shut my eyes.

"Just for a minute, Ducky," Venia had chirruped.

I peeked through my eyelashes, but the way Cinna was holding the garment, half-tucked under one arm, impeded my sneaking a proper glimpse of it.

Besides, it was quickly tossed over my head and I felt Venia and Octavia's hands smoothing it out for me and pulling down the fabric where it had bunched up.

" _Now_ look, Poppet!"

I was taken over to an ordinary looking-glass, one without twisted reflections, so I could see what I really looked like.

The dress-more of a _gown_ , really-was truly beyond words. Cinna had out-done himself. The fire-cape was a brilliant start, yes, but he had, impossibly, surpassed it. And with a much simpler design, no less!

Rows of over-laid rust-red brocade matched with earth-brown velvet ended just below my ankles.

Giggling, I twirled once just to see the skirt of the gown sway.

An involuntarily gasp escaped me as I caught the reflection. What I had taken for an ordinary, albeit extremely fancy, raised brocade design, vaguely resembling curved tree roots, was actually a holographic thread pattern that turned from trees to perfect little embroidered models of the broken old lamppost landmark from 7 as I moved.

"Oh!" I ran my fingers along the embroidery as if I expected to be cut by broken glass or a pine-needle.

"So you like it?" The corners of Cinna's lips turned up.

" _Like_ it?" I cried. "I've never seen anything so..." I couldn't find the words. It wasn't really _light_ , the colours were all dark, but because of its shimmery quality I almost wanted to call it that. "I should have known there would be something extra. I mean, you're the man who lit a cape on _fire_." Then, twirling one more time, "It's like _magic_."

"Your shoes, Ducky!" Venia pulled them out from behind her back. "Cinna made these to match."

Brown satin slippers with silver ribbon that somehow added to the holographic qualities of my gown.

If I didn't think about the fact that I was dressing up and parading around in preparation to go on television and fight for my life, I almost could have been giddy with joy.

All those fancy things, alone, and in their place, they _were_ wonderful.

 _I'll let myself enjoy the gown and slippers_ , I said in my head. _Then I'll go back to being properly afraid and hiding it. Just one minute of happiness. Of not thinking about what this all really means._

My feet slid into the slippers almost effortlessly and it felt as though I was walking on air or water.

No, definitely water. The inside of the shoes felt like they were waving up and down soothingly. I half-expected the soles of my feet to feel wet at any given moment, continually amazed when they never did.

"It's like I'm weightless," I told Cinna. "I could walk for miles in these."

"Or run," he suggested.

"Yes," I agreed, sighing. "Running is better." _If I'm fast enough, the other tributes might never catch me_.

"Come," he said, offering his hand. "I think your chariot will be ready any minute now."

I put my hand in his, wondering if he was this friendly with all the contestants he styled and how he could bear it when they died.

Then again, both the boy and girl from District 12 he'd designed clothing for in the 74th and 75th Hunger Games had, respectively, been victors, so many he didn't actually have as much experience with death as most of the other Capitol-bred stylists did.

Outside in the hallway, Edmund was already waiting, his stylist and Johanna standing beside him. He looked sullen and cross. But it wasn't so bad as it might have been; he wasn't wearing a bad tree costume, and they hadn't chopped off _his_ hair, though it was combed and parted differently from the way it had been on the train and it looked like it had been freshly trimmed.

His opening ceremony clothing was made up of a tree-bark-brown tunic and matching earth-coloured tights. His shoes were roughly evergreen with white-gold buckles.

There was a small pocket on the left side of his chest. Embroidered into the circular crest on this pocket was Cinna's holographic tree-lamppost.

I looked over at Cinna. Had Edmund's stylist stolen his design?

As if reading my mind, he said, "No, I _loaned_ his stylist that design."

"That's stupid," said Johanna, glaring at him and the other stylist. "Making them match. They aren't a team, you know. None of the other tributes have matching symbols on their clothes."

"Exactly," said Cinna knowingly. "They'll stand out."

I remembered what he'd said to me, about helping me make an impression. And he was right. Both of us having the tree-lamppost hologram would definitely make more of a startling impression on the viewers and, more importantly, sponsors than just one of us having it. Yes, either way, whoever had the design would have gotten plenty of oohs and ahhs, but the fact that _both_ District 7 tributes had it would be unusual enough to get people's attention and hold it.

"Well thanks awfully for making us stand here for ever waiting for you," snapped Johanna, unable to think of a good rebuttal, even though she clearly disagreed with Cinna's subtle hint of togetherness between two tributes who barely knew each other.

It wasn't hard to see both sides of the argument. I wanted to side with Cinna, because I was liking him far more than Johanna at the moment, but I could see her point too. Hint that Edmund and I were united in some way, however small, then let all of Panem watch us try to kill each other? Where was the sense in that? But it was that or get lost in a sea of tributes bigger and better, a great deal richer and flashier, than we could ever hope to be.

"No need to bicker," said Edmund's stylist in a painfully cheerful, yet slightly less annoying than typical, Capitol accent. "Let's go down to the bottom level of the Remake Center. The other districts' tributes will be there by now."

"I hope you like horses," said Cinna, looking at me. "It's little more than a gigantic stable."

My cheeks flushed and I knew my eyes had to of lit up when he said that. I had always been fond of horses.

In fact, my silver thumb-ring had a raised design of tiny horses running all the way around it.

That was why I had asked my parents not to sell it for so many years, even though the silver would have brought a little more money into our home, and why, recently, I'd asked their permission to take it to the Capitol with me and wear it in the arena.

I turned the ring round twice very quickly on my thumb as we walked down a seemingly endlessly flight of stairs, imagining that it made the carved horses run.

It was too bad I couldn't run with them. That I couldn't run away from what was to come.


	5. Chapter 5: Edmund

Standing beside a row of chariots with my arms crossed, dressed in clothes vaguely similar in hue to dirt or excrement, with the sole exception of the shape-shifting crest on my pocket, ridiculously tight shoes pinching all the feeling out my toes, making them go numb, I catch my first real, up close and personal, glimpse of my competition.

Of the other districts' tributes.

Because they're standing close by _their_ chariots with _their_ stylists and mentors, too, waiting for the anthem to start playing so we can get this parade rolling.

The ride will be approximately twenty minutes long, ending at City Circle. Our chariots will stop right in front of Lord Snow's mansion. Yes, the same one they air on every bloody channel when they're not broadcasting any actual shows, especially during the Hunger Games.

Which, really, I think, kills the suspense just a little. I mean, if we didn't have to see it all the time on television, perhaps we'd be a little curious as to what it looked like.

As it is, all I'm thinking is, "Golly, we're going to see Lord Snow's mansion... _again_... Hear the lame, badly composed, Hunger Games anthem... _again_..." I don't care that this will be my first time seeing it in person. I can't really imagine it will be _that_ different.

So looking at the other tributes is a bit more interesting. Of course, I've seen most of them, on the news, boarding their trains. And I'm sure they saw _me_ too, when the District 7 reaping was shown all over Panem. But many of them were hurrying into their trains so quickly that a proper look at them was impossible.

I remember Cato and Clove, from District 2. (Who's going to forget _them_?) They look just as glad to be Hunger Games tributes as they did at their reaping. Worse, they look twice as strong in person. Clove isn't _big_ , exactly, but it's obvious she has muscle. She's a Career girl, after all, she's been training and hoping for this all her life. And, hey, their district's main export _is_ weapons.

And of course the eighteen-year-old 'dwarf' from 5 is easily recognizable. The red-haired girl from 5 appears even more sly in person. Fox-like, even. Something about her eyes and the angular shape of her face. She's going to be tough to out-smart in the arena if she's even half so clever as she looks.

There's the drunk mentor from 12 who tried to hug Effie Trinket (I'm surprised he can actually stand up straight), along with a blonde boy and dark-haired girl (also mentors, not contestants), standing next to the coal-black horses hitched to their chariot. The twelve-year-old girl tribute is stroking one of the horse's muzzles lovingly. The boy tribute has enormous eyes; owl eyes. He's already sitting in the chariot, ready to go, staring straight ahead, ignoring everyone and everything around him.

District 3's girl tribute gives me the creeps. I don't remember seeing her on the telly. She's very beautiful with sugar-coloured skin and an impossibly red mouth, and her stylist has dressed her in white fur all the way up to her throat. (Just what fur has got to do with electronics, District 3's specialty, I haven't the foggiest.) But there's a coldness in her stare that makes me want to stand frozen, hoping if I make no sudden movements perhaps she won't be able to see me. There's no flicker of humanity in her eyes. Even Cato and Clove don't look like they'll enjoy trying to murder me in the arena quite as much as she does.

She is about eighteen, I think. How has someone so young learned to look _this_ evil?

She turns her head in my direction, as if sensing that I'm staring at her.

Our eyes lock and she smiles very, very slowly.

All the blood in my veins momentarily turns to impassive ice.

The _boy_ from 3 isn't so bad. He barely has two years on me. Not too much bigger than me, either. Maybe he's three or four pounds heavier at most. I'm not too worried about what will happen if we meet up in the arena. A fair fight is a fair fight. Either of us could kill the other without any unfair advantage. I stand a chance against him.

Luckily, District 3 isn't Career-stock, even if their girl tribute this year looks like she belongs with that crew.

4 is, of course, but I'm not too worried about _that_ girl. She's only twelve years old, after all. It'll be the sponsors that keep her alive if she makes it passed the first day.

She keeps peeking at the little girl from 12 curiously. When the girl hesitantly smiles a little in her direction, she even tries to go over and talk to her before her mentor slips his arm around her, loudly whispers, "No, Gael," and gently lifts her up, placing her down into the District 4 chariot.

The Career boy from 4 is around my own age. I watch as he climbs into the chariot and sits beside the little girl. They're just like me and Jill; no interaction. Just blandly indifferent, as if the other is not there.

From District 6, I spot a nervous-looking, acne-spotted boy who looks my sister's age (he's probably eighteen) wearing a pair of spectacles. I bet someone will knock them off his face, rendering him blind as a bat, on the first day. He won't make it. The odds are not in his favor.

The girl from his district is down-right _stunning_. Almost as beautiful as the creepy girl from 3, which makes me nervous. But at least she doesn't seem as blood-thirsty. And she's dressed in clear blue fabric with her arms left bare, not fur. She has long yellow hair, left loose, all the way down to her feet. I wonder that her stylist didn't have the good sense to cut at least half of it off like Jill's did. A Career tribute could grab her hair and drag her to her death by it easily enough.

I see the mentor from District 1 who Susan thought handsome, but the tributes in his care are hidden from my sight at the moment, standing on the other side of their chariot.

One of their white horses snorts and shakes its head up and down as if there's a bee caught in one of its nostrils.

There's a shrill yipping noise I've heard before but can't put a name to right away, coming from behind District 1's chariot. It's familiar, yet out of place somehow.

"This animal is not cooperating, Peter!" The boy tribute steps out where I can see him.

It's hard not to laugh. He's not what one expects a Career tribute to be. He's thirteen, at best, and very small-boned. His nose crinkles in this comical, rather prissy, "Unhand me, you filthy peasant!" kind of way.

At first I think the animal he is referring to has to be one of the horses, but it turns out to be a small furry dog, a baby husky he's holding out in front of himself like he's afraid it's going to pee on him or something.

"Well, Eustace, perhaps if you held the poor creature like a _dog_ and not a used handkerchief..." Peter suggests, looking snappish and worn out.

"Are you _sure_ it hasn't got fleas?" asks Eustace, frowning at the dog.

Peter rubs his temples. "For the hundredth time in the last five minutes, _yes_."

"Well, I thought something bit my arm a moment ago. It _could_ have been a flea."

He's being utterly ridiculous, of course. Fleas are going to be the least of his problems. If the other tributes don't kill him (which may only be the case if by some miracle his District 1 status causes the other Careers to protect him from those of us who'd be first in line to skin the little blighter alive), there may be pests far worse than those found on household pets in the arena that'll attack him. The Capitol is known for its animal muttations. Or mutts, as they're more commonly referred to. Genetically engineered mutated beings; beasts, insects, birds... Really, they can come up with just about anything. And they've used a wide variety of them in past Hunger Games.

The girl tribute, apparently also carrying a yipping baby husky in her arms, comes out into the open where I can see her, but her back is facing me as she stands there talking to her mentor.

I can see the back of her head, though. Her hair is in two separate braids twisted together at the bottom and tied with gold thread. She seems to be clutching her dog very close to her, unlike the boy tribute, who is still holding his dog out at what nearly qualifies as arm's length.

From what I can see, Clove has a full two inches of height, and at least five pounds of weight, on this girl from District 1.

Honestly, I can't fathom what their stylist was thinking by giving them bloody _puppies_ to carry in their laps during the opening ceremonies chariot ride. As if their size and lack of overt strength doesn't already shame their district's well-established legacy enough as it is, somebody, after much careful deliberation, thought to themselves, "Golly, I know how to fix this! I'll give them each a puppy!" I mean, _seriously_?

Someone (one of the stylists, maybe) shouts something about getting in position. It's almost time. We're closer with every second that ticks by.

As if startled, the girl from District 1, still holding that blasted puppy so tightly she's bound to choke the life out of the thing sooner or later, slowly whips her head round, twisting her body half-way to see who the shouter was.

I don't know what it is, but the moment her gaze passes over me and I get a good look at her face, I feel a strange shudder run through my body. It's as if I've been unexpectedly struck by lightning. My arms unfold and drop at my sides automatically, feeling slightly numb.

There is no reason for this. The girl is no prettier than most, and in fact, compared to the other girls, she's very plain. There is nothing alarming or noteworthy about her appearance either, save for the fact that her dress is an unusual colour for a District 1 tribute.

Typically, clothes from that district worn during the opening ceremonies are predominately gold or silver. In fact, the boy tribute, Eustace, has golden clothing and there is a silvery dust spread over his skin. The girl's dress has some gold in it, gold embroidery all over the sleeves, which are roughly the colour of milk, in crisscrossed patterns, but the rest of it is over-lapping shades of green. Why green? There's nothing particularly green about District 1. But in a weird way, it suits her, and it _is_ expensive-looking, like a vast assortment of luxury fabrics, so I see that their stylist, aside from the whole puppy-thing, is probably not a _complete_ moron.

Then again, what do I know of clothes? Next to nothing. Most fabrics, aside from the fact that some cost more and rip less easily than others, look exactly the same to me.

I finally decide on what it is about the girl tribute's face that gave me such an unexplainable shock. She's very young. My guess is she isn't a day over a dozen years old. Her blue eyes are so pathetically harmless-looking. She's like the girls from 12 and 4. Small. Unfairly dragged into the games. Bound to die off quickly.

I should be glad. This puts the odds in my favor over the that of the Careers. Not one, but _two_ , of their girls are the youngest possible age and clearly not fighters. They cannot get much use out of 1 and 4. This is good. Of course it is.

But, at the same time, I don't feel happy about it.

Because I feel like I should hate the Careers. Their districts have killed children from mine mercilessly in past Hunger Games. I've seen it, year after year. But how does one hate a pair of little girls who seem to have just _barely_ passed their eleventh birthdays? Or even a under-developed boy who, while clearly annoying and spoiled, certainly doesn't deserve to _die_?

It's bad enough having a little girl in 12. And that's easier to deal with, because I have no reason to feel hatred towards a bunch of coal-miners' kids who probably grew up even poorer than me and Susan. I can ignore her in the arena. Let someone else have her blood on their conscience.

But Careers _hunt_ other tributes. They'll come after me. And I'll have to fight. I wonder how all of Panem, especially everybody back home in District 7, will be able to keep from despising me if they see me defensively attacking the girls from 1 and 4.

If _I_ saw someone hurt them on television, I know I would feel disgust. In fact, I have felt it. I once saw a twelve-year-old boy (from District 11, I think) get pummeled by a fellow of seventeen or eighteen from my district. I never told anyone, but I was actually glad that the victor that year wasn't one of our tributes. I hated us. I hated us on account of that little boy. I've never forgotten the moment the cannon signaling his death boomed. It seemed louder than usual to me.

Now it's time for my district to hate _me_.

What will Susan say? Would she even still _want_ me to come home alive after seeing me kill someone on live television? She hates the sight of blood. Especially of festering wounds. She's always been so sensitive to that kind of thing.

Johanna coughs pointedly, jolting me out of my thoughts. It's time to go. Once we get this over with, we'll be imprisoned (oh, I'm sorry, _temporarily housed_ ) in the Training Center until the games begin. The only time we're going to be let out is for our pre-Hunger Games interviews.

Jill's stylist helps her into the chariot and I grab onto the side and pull myself up next to her. Neither of us says anything. We don't even look at one another.

This is what all the tributes seem to be doing, except for the girls from 1 and 2. The girl from 1 gives a nervous glance over her shoulder at her mentor, who in turn bites down onto his lower lip and says nothing. Then she looks at the boy beside her in the chariot and sighs. Clove cocks her head proudly and shoots Cato a slight grin. From where I am positioned on the District 7 chariot, I can't tell whether or not he returns the gesture.

The anthem plays and the white horses, so well trained they don't even need drivers, knowing perfectly well which path they are expected to go down, pull the girl and boy from District 1 out into the streets.

The roar of the crowd is deafening. District 1 tributes are always absurdly popular with the Capitol crowds. It doesn't matter, evidently, that they're both misfits this year.

"For mercy's sake," Johanna hisses to me, " _try_ to look like you're enjoying yourself!"

"I'm not on the street yet," I grunt.

She frowns.

Clearly, she thinks I won't be doing a whole lot of waving and kiss-blowing and 'woo-hoo!' shouting when my chariot really _is_ moving through the streets, either. She's right, of course. So very right. But I don't want to give her the satisfaction of admitting it.

If I'm sullen, I'm sullen. It won't kill my chances with a sponsor if I look a little cross. If the odds are in my favor, they might even think I'm so bitter-faced because I'm some kind of mindless killing machine that doesn't know _how_ to look happy, bet their money on me, then help keep me alive so they can collect.

Johanna, however, does not like this haphazard last minute plan of mine. "You could at least smile a _little_."

I peek over at my fellow tribute from 7 then quickly look away. Jill has a teeny glimmer of a smile on her face; it looks forced, but _nervous_ -forced, not angry-forced.

Not furious and hateful, like I'm sure mine would.

"I hate them, they'll hate me," I say at last, thinking of the crowds of idiots who have been looking forward to these brutal games with endless anticipation. "No amount of smiling is going to change that."

"They'll only hate you if you give them reason to," snaps Johanna, impatient, as we only have a few more seconds. "At least wave _once_."

All the Career tributes' chariots have gone out, and so has 3's. 5 and 6 go next, then I feel the chariot move under me.

It takes a moment's struggle to keep my balance and not go tumbling out of the side before the cameras are even on me, but I manage. I'm a little envious of Jill, who I can see, out of the corner of my eye, is having no problem keeping _her_ balance as we move along.

The sky is getting steadily darker and faces in the crowd are lost in ever-growing shadows, but they're still cheering. I guess, because of the lanterns and fireworks they can see me all right, even if I can't see any of them clearly.

Someone actually screams my name. Flowers and their petals are thrown. Jill stifles a giggle as a stray petal that looks black to me because of the bad lighting but is probably really dark red is blown into her face and tickles her nose.

I force myself to look straight ahead.

But something about laughter, any laughter, right now, in this situation, is oddly contagious, and a small smile does come to my face after all. I don't know what I'm smiling about, but I am.

And the crowd goes wild for it.

So I do what Johanna wanted. I wave. Just once.

Whoever my wave seemed to be directed at throws a rose in my direction and it lands inside the chariot.

Against my own better judgment I bend down to pick the flower up. I don't know what I plan to do with it. Throw it back into the crowd? Sniff it in a dramatic manner in a false display of sentimentality? I really haven't the foggiest. All I know is I want to pick it up. I'll improvise as I go along.

Unfortunately, I lose the balance I've been working so hard to maintain and go tumbling out into the street.

I even roll over twice before my falling body comes to a complete stop.

Dash it! This is not good. I know I will be tossed into that arena whatever condition I'm in. Even if I'm covered in road-rash. And I'm not stupid enough to think it won't matter. Nearly anything can be an advantage to the Careers. Any open and visible weakness, no matter how small.

But I'm not hurt, and I don't actually have the dreaded road-rash by some miracle. I'm fine. Not a mark on me.

The horses, sensing something amiss, have stopped, and the others behind us have done the same, thankfully without throwing any of _their_ tributes into the street to keep me company in the process.

I stand up laughing hysterically, brushing myself off.

"Edmund Martin! Phew, that was quite the trip! Nothing hurt?" shouts a reporter in the crowd. I can hear the static-filled high-pitch of a microphone being turned on.

"Nope," I call out in what I hope is the right direction. "Not even my pride!"

The crowd roars with amused laughter. They love how overconfident I sound, the cockiness in my voice.

I wink and climb back into my chariot beside Jill. "Onward-ho!" I shout for dramatic effect.

The mad laughter and delighted roaring and clapping gets even louder. Louder, I daresay, even than the cheers for the Career tributes ahead of me.

I wonder what they're saying at home. About me falling and getting right back up.

Did it scare them? Or did it give them hope, reminding them that I can take hard knocks and get right back up again?

I also wonder if Anne Featherstone is bragging that her boyfriend got extra screen-time because of that little accident. Ugh, she probably is. The thought takes away what's left of my adrenaline-rush smile, transforming it into a tight grimace for the rest of the ride to City Circle.

We finally come to a halt in front of Lord Snow's mansion. Only different from what's shown on television because those images are usually bathed in broad daylight, whereas, here, it's officially nighttime now.

I can still see the glint of his white hair, though, and make out his face in the spotlight that is turned on from somewhere below and pointed up at him as he appears on the balcony and makes a speech, welcoming us.

I barely listen. It's the same nonsense Pug said at the reaping, pretty much. Just a different voice-a scarier, darker one-saying the words and making them sound a little more grand.

My eyes shift over to the giant screen hanging from the nearest tower. It's showing what all of Panem is seeing right now. They cut between Lord Snow talking and our faces down in the chariots, looking up at him and around at everything else.

There's Clove. Then Cato. Then a close up of me (well, the side of my turned head, anyway). Then the face of the scary white girl from 3. Her red mouth looks black, like the petal that hit Jill in the face.

Then there's the girl from 1. The camera pans out and I realize, marveling at how unorthodox it is, that she's actually letting go of the husky puppy with one arm and reaching out to squeeze her fellow District 1 tribute's hand before he clears his throat, snorts, and hastily shakes off her grip.

Compared to that unprecedented bold move, which nobody in Panem could have possibly missed, the fact that Jill and I both have matching holograms on our clothes will be nothing worth mentioning.

After the speech, our chariots go around City Circle twice as a kind of encore. Then we're told to get down and are led up the steps of the massive building that is the Training Center.

We stand, all twenty-four of us, in what is almost a straight line from one end of the massive top front step to the other, and look out into the crowd.

They cheer one last time as we are hurried inside.

That's it, then.

The opening ceremonies are over.

The doors slam shut behind us, signaling the true beginning of what, for all but one of us, will be the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Just so there's no confusion, no, Lucy is NOT twelve years old in this story. The only twelve year olds in the 77th Hunger Games are in fact Prim and Gael. The reason Lucy is described as being a dozen years old in this chapter, but a year older than thirteen year old Jill in chapter 2, isn't a continuity error on my part. It's because the POVS are different. Edmund (mistakenly) thinks she's younger than she actually is. Whereas Jill guessed her age correctly when she saw the reaping for District 1 on TV.


	6. Chapter 6: Jill

I had been worried about getting lost in the Training Center, since it was such a large building; but, as it turned out, there was little chance of that. The place seemed to have been designed especially so that we could keep track of where we were at all times.

Or, perhaps, so _they_ could keep track of where we were at all times.

Each district had its own floor. District 1 had the first floor, District 2, the second; and so on.

These assigned floors were set up in this high sky-scraper tower built into the side of the Training Center. To get to your district's floor, you simply rode up in this big glass elevator in which everything was see-through, including the floor and the ceiling. I could even see the shaft under my feet.

It was very much what I imagined going up in a hot-air balloon might be like (though I'd never been in one), only faster.

The people waving glowing sticks below shrank instantly from life-size, to doll-size, then finally to the size of teensy little ants before they become nothing but unidentifiable glowing coloured specks.

I've always had a good head for heights and the ride up to my district's floor was, aside from Cinna's gorgeous holographic gown, the best thing that had happened to me in the Capitol. It was exhilarating.

Almost giddy from the sheer thrill of it, I found that I really wanted another ride in the elevator, once it had reached our floor and we were told to get off.

Once I knew what it was like, finally getting over the shock that came from the novelty of it, I naturally wanted to go again and enjoy it properly. I even asked Johanna if it was allowed, but she was cross and pretended not to hear me. As for Edmund, I didn't say a word to him about it; he was looking rather green in the face and I gathered quickly enough that he hadn't liked being shot up the side of a high tower in a giant crystal case half so much as I had.

The room they gave me had a bed big enough to fit at least ten other girls my size and had this sun-shaped circular headboard made out of what I was fairly certain was fine, crimson-stained mahogany. The carpets were so deep my ankles sunk halfway into them even when I stepped my lightest.

There was a heavy door that, when pushed open, led into the most lavish bathroom I'd ever seen in my life. The tub was almost bigger than my house, and the marble floors swirled with browns and blacks and creams, reminiscent of the endless ice cream sundaes displayed in frosty insulated shop windows each summer my parents could never afford.

Countless buttons and nozzles were everywhere, and I wondered, a little appalled, how any tribute could possibly find time to push, pull, or play with every gadget when there was so little time to be spent there before the Hunger Games began. It seemed a little cruel to me. And yet, I still wanted to see what would happen if I pushed one.

A rumbling sound came from the tub when I finally gave in and pressed my thumb down on a red button on the wall behind it.

I jumped back nervously, thinking perhaps I'd broken something. But I hadn't. Steamy water filled the tub, and soapy bubbles automatically appeared floating on top.

A hot bath, I thought, how lovely.

Here was one simple pleasure, at least, that the knowledge of what I was in the Capitol for couldn't entirely dampen.

I shed my clothes, careful to hang my beautiful holographic gown up behind the door, knowing Cinna wouldn't want me to give it back to him wrinkled and water-stained. I was not such a fool to think that, even though it had been designed for me, I would be permitted to keep it.

I did, however, wonder if there was someplace I could bury it and pretend I lost it. But that was ridiculous and I knew it too well. First off, how could I have made out that I _lost_ a fancy gown? No one with half a brain would believe it. Not even Venia and Octavia could be so stupid. Second, I could never steal from Cinna. It was his masterpiece. I had worn it for a night and been dazzling in it, but it belonged to him. It was a gift loaned to me unselfishly, and I, just as unselfishly, had to give it back. I had not forgotten, after all, that I _could_ have been wearing an ugly tree costume out there. Furthermore, it seemed as if there wasn't much spare dirt to be found at the Capitol.

As I soaked in the tub, I thought about the chariot ride to City Circle. Edmund's nasty tumble had created quite the sensation, if the dirty looks from the other tributes held up in the street behind us, waiting for him to stop throwing himself at the reporters, were any indication. But I was fairly sure it hadn't been a deliberate publicity stunt. He'd truly fallen by pure accident. And I couldn't blame him if he'd used the opportunity to show off a little. In his place, I knew I would have done the same thing.

I had decided to soak until the water got cold, only it never did and I got tired of waiting. My fingers and toes were turning into little skin-coloured prunes. So I finally climbed out and dried myself off.

There were closets full of clothes for me to choose from.

I settled on a white blouse and brownish-gray woolen skirt with a design of what looked like purple buffaloes marching around the hem. Not fashionable, but very warm and soothing. There was even a ruffled purple-and-brown overcoat that came down only to my rib cage made of the same wool as the skirt.

My stomach growled and I discovered a black leather menu propped up by my bedside.

To order, all I had to do was push a button and whisper the name of the food I wanted into a little speaker and there came an opening in the wall, pushing it through, appropriately hot or cold, whichever the food was supposed to be. The bread I ordered tasted like it had just come out of the oven, and the ice cream sundae I asked for after that, feeling tempted by the bathroom floor, was so cold it made my teeth ache and my temples throb.

I figured I would be left alone for the rest of the night. After all, there was nothing I needed that was not already in the room (except, of course, the freedom to go home). But, to my utter shock, I heard Johanna and Pug (who, unfortunately, was staying on our floor with us for some unexplained reason) knocking on my door, calling me to supper.

 _Supper_? I thought, my jaw hanging slightly agape. How can I eat supper after all that bread and ice cream?

Nonetheless, I opened my door and went down the hallway to a glass-paned dining room with them.

Edmund was already there, picking at his food. I supposed he had eaten in his room too and, like myself, was only there because Johanna and Pug had called him.

Thankfully, it wasn't just us; Cinna and Edmund's stylist, whose name, I learned, was Portia, were there too.

"You're looking lackluster, Gel," said Pug, realizing that, with the sole exception of when Cinna asked me a direct question, I wasn't really speaking to anyone, and that none of the food on my fork had reached my lips.

"Homesick?" Cinna asked kindly.

I nodded.

Edmund grunted. He seemed not to find his mashed-potatoes quite mashed enough; he was beating them mercilessly with the side of his fork.

"There is a phone you can use," Cinna told me. "At the other end of this hallway. Every floor except 11 and 12 has one."

Of course, I wasn't dense enough to think that any permitted phone conversation wouldn't be listened to (maybe even recorded) and timed, but I did want to hear my parents' voices again. We had a phone. We just didn't use it very often, was all. For the first time I thought about my mother maybe waiting by the phone, thinking her daughter would call before they threw her into the Hunger Games arena and all contact with the outside world was severed.

Pug slid some fried liver onto my plate and told me to try it.

It looked disgusting, so I flicked it into the lacy cloth napkin in my lap when his head was turned.

Unfortunately, our server seemed to think I'd eaten it, too, and wanted more, and, coming over, put another piece on my plate.

"Thank you," I said, feeling sorry for him. Looking over my shoulder briefly, I'd seen that the man had a pair of the saddest eyes I'd ever seen.

"You're not supposed to talk to an Avox, except to give them an order," said Portia gently, nearly whispering.

"An Avox?" I echoed, puzzled.

"Someone who commits a crime and has their tongue cut out as punishment," mumbled Cinna to his plate. I could tell it made him uncomfortable.

"They work as servers here," Pug added, stating the obvious.

"Oh." I felt my cheeks grow hot. I'd been about to ask the man if he had ever been to District 7, because he looked, I thought, a little familiar. Now I couldn't. Even if it wasn't forbidden, he couldn't answer me if he didn't have a tongue.

Edmund sat up a little straighter in his chair and leaned back to look at the man. His eyes went wide and his mouth spread into this tight, exasperated line. He stood up, looking furious.

"Edmund..." said Johanna warningly.

He loudly blurted out a curse word that made Portia gasp and Cinna recoil. Pug choked on the sip of wine he had just swallowed and the Avox had to come over and pound him on the back.

Edmund swore again and kicked down a silverware cart. Apparently, in his blind anger, it hadn't occurred to him that the Avox would have to pick all the spilled forks, spoons, and knives up off the floor.

The Avox _was_ from our district, then. He had to be. Edmund had recognized him, too. I couldn't put a name to the man's face, and I didn't think I'd ever spoken to him, back when he _could_ speak. I couldn't recall if he'd been rich or poor, a lumberjack or a paper factory worker, but I had to of seen him sometimes-back home. Back home, which was, except for the reaping day, supposed to be safe.

Perhaps being chosen as a tribute wasn't the only way to get yourself dragged off to the Capitol without a choice.

Without another word, Edmund stormed out of the dining room.

After a bit, I decided to go and look for him, even though we weren't friends; even though I'd told Johanna and Cinna I just needed to go to my room and lie down for a little while.

At first I wandered aimlessly, not at all sure where Edmund had gone. Somehow I had the feeling he hadn't gone back to his room and I would bump into him eventually if I kept walking. The fact that it was taking for ever didn't bother me too much. After all, I didn't know what I would say to him when I found him.

Finally I came to an open steel door labeled 'To Roof'.

I hadn't known tributes were allowed on the roof. Or even that it was possible to _get_ to the roof from the seventh floor.

It turned out to be a long turret with no bottom, similar to an elevator shaft, through which ran a long ladder that apparently went by all the floors.

Without a second thought, I stepped out and pulled myself onto the ladder. I noticed that it was a good thing Edmund had left the door open, if this really was where he'd run off to, because none of the doors I climbed passed had any handles or knobs to open them from the inside. At least, not that I could see in the dark.

A strong gust of wind whipped at what was left of my hair and I climbed the rest of the way onto the roof.

It was spacious, running the length of the whole Training Center, not only the Tributes' Tower, and the view was too incredible for words, but Edmund wasn't looking at it.

He was sitting with his knees pulled to his chest, his face buried in his crossed arms.

I was about to announce my presence there, but I knew what it was like to be interrupted in the middle of a good cry long before being ready. It was one of the most uncomfortable feelings in the world.

And, even though I wasn't entirely sure he _was_ crying, as I couldn't see his face, I guessed that, if he wasn't weeping, deep down, he _wanted_ to.

Perhaps if it weren't for the wind-chimes swaying from potted plants and the side of chimneys, and a strange, almost electric, low humming noise from something nearby I couldn't put my finger on, I would have been able to hear his sobs, if there were any. If I'd wanted to be so cruel as to out-right eavesdrop on a somebody who very well might have been in the middle of an emotional meltdown for all I knew.

So I left as quickly and quietly as I could, wondering why I'd gone after him in the first place, knowing from the start I had nothing sensible-or even remotely helpful-to say.

Back in my room, I laid looking at the ceiling, unable to fall asleep.

I didn't want to die, but I didn't want to fight the other kids either.

I wondered why they had the Avox from District 7 working on our floor. Wouldn't it be easier to have him work where he was least likely to meet up with someone he used to know?

Yes, but easier for _who_? Easier for us, from District 7. Not easier for anyone in the Capitol.

And why would they _want_ to make things easier for us? They were going to make us fight to the death while the whole world watched.

But if their goal was to break us, then why give us beautiful things? Nice clothes and seemingly magically prepared food that appeared at the touch of a button. Why did we need fancy treatment if we were prisoners?

Was it only to keep up the illusion that the Hunger Games were unquestionably good? Or did it run deeper than that?

My father had once said to me that if you wanted to ruin a country, the best, subtlest way least likely to meet up with any resistance would be to give them too much, have them on their knees, begging, indebted to you.

In this respect, he said, and mother disagreed (her motto was, 'when in doubt, always give'), we were almost lucky to be poor.

Did we owe the Capitol something for all this? And the Avox, was he a reminder? A reminder that if we made things difficult, they could easily return the favor. Perhaps it was a reminder that there were things worse than dying. Living in utter misery and wishing you _could_ die, knowing they wouldn't let you.

I wished I could remember who the Avox was. Well, _had_ been. I wished I had stayed on the roof with Edmund after all, just so I could have asked him, seeing as he seemed to know. The second I stepped off that roof, I had begun to doubt how upset he really had been. How much of it was genuine. It was so hard to be sure; to guess what was real and what wasn't.

It must have been extremely late when I finally lost track of my wandering thoughts and fell asleep, yet dawn was just barely breaking through a gap in the curtains when I woke and threw myself, still fully dressed in the same clothes I had worn to supper the night before, out of bed.

Feeling beastly and irritable after sleeping in my clothes, wishing I'd had the good sense to change after coming down from the roof, I glanced at the menu and ordered hot porridge with a side of puffy white-flour bread.

My outsides still felt uncomfortable, but my insides thawed marvelously. Especially when I poured myself some tea to wash it down with, cleaned my face, and combed my bangs to the side so they would stop tickling my eyelids.

Then I sat on the bed with my legs tucked under me, trying to imagine what training would be like. I wondered what I ought to learn. Since the other tributes would see me, I didn't want to give away my skill with archery. At least, not straight off, anyway. Besides, picking up some new skills wouldn't hurt, instead of just sharpening my old ones. But I would have to be careful not to choose anything too complex to learn over the short period of three days, which was likely to narrow my choices down so much it was depressing.

So I temporarily gave up dwelling on that and, instead, let myself think of what I would say to my parents when I called home. I couldn't tell them I was scared. They probably already knew that. And anyone might over-hear. I could tell them I loved and missed them. But could I keep myself from blurting out that there was an Avox from our district waiting on me in the dining room?

I had to. For all I knew, it could have been treason to even acknowledge the past of somebody convicted of treason. They might jolly well cut out _my_ tongue next if I couldn't control it.

Hours later, exhaling deeply, I walked out of my room and headed for the phone Cinna mentioned.

The phone was in a small (clearly not sound-proof) booth made of glass and pine-wood pained bright red. I wondered if the wood had come from our district. In a weird way, I hoped it had.

Edmund was already in the booth with the phone to his ear, so I had to wait my turn.

I tried not to listen, but it was impossible not to hear.

"Anne," he snapped into the phone, "no more crying into the receiver, dash it!" He rolled his eyes at whatever she said after that. "Uh-huh..." Sighing, he twisted his neck and caught sight of me standing outside the booth. "Listen, I have to go." I could hear her over-dramatic wailing as he pulled the phone away from his ear and slammed it down.

"Five minutes of phone privileges per tribute isn't short _enough_ ," he grumbled to me in passing, disappearing down the hallway.

If Edmund had stayed a moment longer, I might have asked him why he hadn't called his parents and sister instead of his girlfriend if he found her so tiresome. But it really wasn't any of my business.

I stepped into the booth, closed the door behind me, and dialed my home phone number.

"Hello?"

I knew it was my mother's voice. My throat closed and I couldn't speak.

"Who is it? Jill, honey? Is that you?"

Tears streamed down my face. I couldn't handle it. Without saying a word, I hung up the phone, leaning the side of my head against the nearest glass pane.


	7. Chapter 7: Edmund

_Crash_! _Clang_! I kick over a cart loaded with silverware and stomp out of the dining room. Soon, I'm breathless. I stop, but only for a second. Then I'm running, moving faster than before.

At first, I don't know where I'm going. All I know is I want to get away. Away from everything. The Capitol. The Hunger Games. All of it. I know, of course, I can't. But, paradoxically, I can't be in the dining room with the others right now, either.

I notice a sign on a steel door. It leads to the roof.

I don't know whose brilliant idea it was to let tributes on the roof, but I'm suddenly overcome with gratitude for their stupidity. I want to go up there. It's not _away_ , not even close, but it's as far from all this-from the fearful pounding in my chest and the hard lump settling in my stomach-as I'm going to get.

I unlatch the door and throw it open, flinging myself at the ladder I can dimly see. The one that will take me up onto the roof.

It's not until I am clinging to the rungs that I realize there was no particular reason I should have landed on the ladder instead of the empty space below, which runs the length of six other floors.

That would have been messy, I think briefly, looking down passed my feet into a metal cylinder of complete nothingness and cussing shortly under my breath.

I like rock-climbing, and as a little kid in District 7 I enjoyed swinging from the trees, but that doesn't mean heights don't ever make me nervous. All it means is I hide it well.

Somehow this is easier than the elevator earlier today, though. Riding in _that_ made me feel sick. To be fair, however, that may have had more to do with the motion and the fact that everything even remotely visible had reflected glaringly off of the glass surfaces than it did with heights. In the dark, climbing, it's all right. The ladder doesn't move; it stays in place. The pacing is left entirely up to me.

My thoughts whirl in a circle till they end up right back where they started. The Avox. I know ( _knew?_ ) him. Not _well_ , of course, but still.

The coot who screamed out about Cair Paravel at the reaping years ago; when they arrested him, one peacekeeper tried to laugh it off, saying the man was just a little mad, not right in the head, that they should leave him alone. I never saw that particular peacekeeper after that. After he tried to make light of a rebel's out-burst and resisted taking him into custody. And yet, I never thought about it. One less peacekeeper snooping around, directing us, bossing us, sucking up to the Capitol. One less authority figure to worry about.

No real loss, right?

Wrong.

I see that now.

The man with no tongue, serving us as a voiceless Avox, is that peacekeeper.

All this time, if I thought of him at all, I guess I assumed he was reassigned someplace else, another district. I never imagined he was in the Capitol with his tongue cut out.

It has nothing to do with me, so I shouldn't be so upset. But I can't help it. He didn't do anything wrong. _He_ wasn't the one who screamed out against the Capitol at the reaping. Why punish him? Why not the coot and _only_ the coot?

I think of Tumnus and his music. If he was apprehended for his questionable songs, and I found it in me to defend him, even off-handedly, would they have done to me what they've done to this peacekeeper? Cut _my_ tongue out? Forced _me_ to slave away for a bunch of yearly tributes?

I hate this. I want to go home. I'm not the boy who fell out of the chariot, the one with unbreakable pride and liveliness. I don't know where he came from, but I'm _not_ him. And I don't want to be him.

Inside the arena, if I want to live, I'll have to be him.

I going have to make sure everyone wants me to survive. I have to make sure I'm remembered.

Once I'm finally on the roof, I look out and shake my head.

The Capitol seems endless. Even if I could run away, escape from the Training Center, I wouldn't make it five miles.

And if I did escape, impossible as it is, what would they do to my family? A government that can make an Avox out of someone who works _for_ them, can certainly destroy the lives of a family of a boy who runs from them, giving them cheek, going _against_ them.

Susan. Mum. My father. I can't let anyone hurt them. I have to be a good little tribute. I _have_ to.

I sit down and pull my knees to me, covering my face with my arms. I'm breathing in and out, trying to calm down.

How can I calm down? I'm about to go on live television. As likely as not, Panem will look on as I am murdered. So what if the Careers have two little girls? They can still find a way.

Clove or Cato could kill me. If the girl from District 3 doesn't eat me alive first.

That's happened before. Literally. A couple of times that I recall from past Hunger Games; tributes gone cannibal. Of course, the Gamemakers found ways of killing those savage kids off before one of them could win. In the same way they can't have Johanna Mason in therapy, they can't have a victor who likes the taste of human flesh tainting the saintly glory of their games. It reflects poorly on them and they won't accept it.

There's the sound of wind and jingling chimes. It's enough to drive anyone round the bend. The wind pushing at my back is calling me a coward. The chimes are taunting me.

How can I stand it?

Forget this, I think, letting go of my knees and clumsily rising to my feet.

Suddenly I don't care-about _any_ of it. Not even my family back home. I was worried about them a moment ago, but I'm not now. My mind is temporarily desensitized to thoughts of them. Susan and my parents will have to take care of themselves. They're all grown-ups, let them deal with it.

It isn't running away my mind is pondering. No, that wouldn't end it. And that's what I want. I want it all over. Before I have to go in the arena, before I have to train with the other tributes, before I have to show the Gamemakers whatever skills I have so that they can give me a rating, before I have my interview... I want it to stop before any of it starts.

They can dress me up in strange clothes, they can comb my hair and make me wave to a bunch of brain-dead people who, whether they know it or not, are in desperate need of a good beating with a birch-rod, and they can make me live here.

As long as I'm alive, they can do all of those things. And worse. But I'm not going to let it get far enough for that. I've had enough, and I'm done.

Just done.

They're _begging_ me to. They've given me-a desperate, angry tribute-access to this roof, a way out. I walk closer towards the edge. I'm going to jump. I hope it will only hurt for a moment. If I'm lucky, perhaps I'll be killed before my body hits the ground.

"I wouldn't try it, if I were you," says a voice behind me.

If it wasn't for the wind, I would have heard somebody coming up here. Unless, of course, they were slight and careful-footed. Jill Pole, for instance, could probably sneak up here silently. Anyone a pound heavier couldn't if not for the wind and chimes droning out the noise of their arrival.

And it's not Jill talking to me now. It's a male voice. A vaguely familiar one.

I turn halfway to look at him. It's Peter, the mentor for the District 1 tributes.

"Leave me alone," I grunt, turning back to the way I was facing before.

"I'm serious, Edmund," he says.

"How do you know my name?"

"I heard it on television," he says simply. "And, of course, all the people screaming it at your chariot during the opening ceremonies was a hint."

"You aren't _my_ mentor," I snap. "I don't have to listen to you."

"Hear that humming noise?" Peter asks pointedly. "Ignore the chimes for a minute and really concentrate."

I roll my eyes.

"Do you hear it?"

"No," I lie. Because, of course, I _do_. I'm simply too cross and stubborn to admit it.

"Don't jump," he says again. "It won't work."

My foot it won't! I don't have to listen to this. Breathing in deeply, I force my feet up off the flat surface of the roof and into the air.

 _Zap_! My insides feel like they've been charged with a broken wire attached to a porch-front bug-killer. For about half a second I'm numb all over, void of any feeling whatsoever in my body. Then I feel pain. In my back, which I seem to be lying on. I'm somewhere in the middle of the roof-no longer close to the edge.

"Well?" says Peter, a touch of sarcasm lacing his overtly annoyed tone. "Are you dead?"

"No, but I think I'm rendered unconscious," I sneer, blinking up at him as his face appears above me, one eyebrow arched. "Shut up."

"Well, I like that!" he laughs, bending over and holding out his hand to help me up. "When are you going to learn to do as you're told?"

Grudgingly, I take it and use his arm as a ladder, pulling myself to my feet again, shaking off the lingering feeling of being electrocuted.

They weren't quite so idiotic as I believed. Evidently, the thought that a tribute might come up here and attempt to throw themselves off _had_ occurred to them after all. It wasn't a way out. Like all other exits from their games, it was sealed. Sealed by an electric force-field that shot back any tributes who tried to take that final jump. That was the humming I lied about hearing.

"If it makes you feel any better," Peter says next, "I tried to make that jump when I was a tribute."

"It doesn't," I retort gruffly. "Make me feel better, I mean."

He shrugs. "And that's not my problem."

I wonder what would have happened if I lost my grip on the ladder coming up here. Was there a force-field somewhere between the 12th and 1st floors that would have shot me back up into place? If they wouldn't let me die on the roof, somehow I doubt they would let me die climbing a ladder. Though the ladder could be made to look like an accident more easily than a deliberate leap off a roof-top, I suppose.

My head is spinning. Too many deep questions, and I'm feeling shaky from the after-effects of the shock. I'm loaded with goosebumps and all the hair on my arms and legs stands up on end.

"So," I say after a pause, folding my arms across my chest. "Why did you jump? Couldn't _you_ hear the humming?" The edge in my voice is impossible to miss.

"It so happens that," he replies coolly, "I was afraid. Just like you."

"I'm not afraid of anything."

"Really?" Peter is not convinced. "I'd wager you were."

"You'd lose all your money," I simper cockily. "But, then, gambling's a risky business anyway. Especially if you're bad at it."

He doesn't rise to the bait. His voice remains calm and easy. "I bet you were thinking of your family, worried sick about them, and then you just stopped caring-for one moment. And that was when you made the choice to jump."

Now this is just insulting... How can a snobby Career victor know my thoughts so well? "A terrible choice," I say, smirking. I don't want him to think he is getting to me, even though he kind of _is_.

Peter sighs and sits down.

I'm disappointed, I was hoping he would leave. I know _I_ could still leave, but I don't.

Not yet ready to go back to my floor, I sit down across from him. I force myself not to imagine telling Susan about this, about meeting him, because then I know I would have to think about the fact that I might not ever get to.

"The one good thing about the Capitol," Peter says, "is the food."

"My sister's cooking is better," I say, deliberately being impossible. It's not true, but it is how I feel. I know I would rather eat her cooking and be safe at home if I had the choice.

But I'm not scared-not afraid-Peter cannot goad me into openly saying I am. He's trying to trick me into giving something away, I think, maybe even something that will give the District 1 tributes an advantage. It won't work.

Peter smiles hesitantly. "I have a sister too."

"How nice," I say insincerely.

"Is yours older or younger?"

"And here I thought my interview wasn't till after training," I snap.

"Hang it all, it was just a simple question."

"Older," I admit.

"Mine's younger," he sighs. "I practically raised her."

I won't let myself feel any pity for him now. But, nonetheless, "Mine practically raised me," comes out. Of course, Mum did her part, while father was in the forest, trying to keep us in lumber so we could live indoors and eat, but when I think of motherly nagging ('keep your dirty boots off the bedspread'; 'Ed, close the door behind you, you weren't born in a barn') it's Susan's face that pops up more readily.

"Do you know, when my parents died," he goes on, "they wanted to take her away from me."

"Her who?" My mind has drifted off, and I've mostly forgotten what we're talking about.

"My _sister_ ," he says.

"Oh, _that_ 'her'. Right." Why is he telling me this? What do I care about his sister? Some District 1 kid I've never even met.

"I was in my early teens and they said that the burden of looking after her would be too great," he explains, shaking his head. "But I smiled, thanked them through my teeth, then I asked them to let my sister into the room instead of keeping her outside as if none of it concerned her."

"How old was she?" I ask in spite of myself.

"She was seven or eight, and about eight years my junior," he answers, his eyes growing distant and misty. "How anyone could _ever_ think that precious sweetheart of a little girl could ever be a _burden_!"

This is only making it harder to hate the Careers. I've never thought of any of them as loving; they're mindless killing machines, mostly. But the overt love Peter has for his younger sister makes my electrocuted ribs ache.

Of course, it _could_ be a trick, an act of some sort, but what would he have to gain from such a display? At best, my repressed grudging sympathies. Nothing worth playing mind-games for. So I'm at a lost for an explanatory theory as far as that is concerned.

"I ignored them and I kept her with me for, I would guess, about seven years," he finishes. "Then there was the reaping this year..."

What has the reaping got to do with anything? I wonder. Won't he just go back to her after he's done being a mentor to this year's tributes? She would be about fourteen now, if I've done the numbers right in my head. So shouldn't his sister be big enough to look after herself for a few weeks till her brother can come home? Or are all District 1 children so over-coddled when they're not illegally training to kill in the Hunger Games or making luxury items for spoiled Capitol citizens that they can't do a dashed thing for themselves?

But Peter won't say anything further. He stands up and, changing the subject, asks if I'm going to be all right going down the ladder by myself.

Indignant, I snort something pompous and bratty-sounding in his direction and turn my back to him.

Once I'm sure he's gone, I pull my knees back to my chest and re-bury my face.

There is no way out. No relief. No hope. And, as reason comes back to me, I begin to hate myself for what I was about to do. It doesn't matter to me that Peter tried it. He's a Career tribute, a brute who doesn't know any better. _I_ should. I'm from District 7. I have to prove that I'm more than just some barbaric game-piece, because if that's all I am, there's not much worth in it as I'll never be as good as the Careers. Even if I win these games and come home, I'll never have the stature, the importance of a Career victor. I have to make myself different. And attempting suicide didn't exactly accomplish that.

The wind and the chimes blow on while I turn to the side, still wrapped in my own arms, leaning heavily against a chimney. I could go back to my own room now, but I still don't want to.

I don't feel the cold. I don't feel much of anything.

Hours later, I begin to feel it-the cold, the tiredness. I get up and climb down the ladder. Despite half-wanting to, I don't let go to see if there's a force-field at the bottom. Being electrocuted once tonight was more than enough.

When I'm back in my room, I drink about a gallon of hot lemon water, change into night-clothes, and attempt, mostly in vain, to sleep.

I drift in and out of my semi-forced slumber. When I do nod off, I have odd dreams. Not scary, but not appealing either. I see lights and faces, some recognizable, some blurred. I see my sister and parents sitting in front of our television set before they melt away and turn into the other tributes and the television turns into a block of melting ice, drip-dropping on the ground in an aggravating fashion.

My bladder insists I wake up all the way and relieve myself (the dream of dripping ice after all that lemon-water was not a combination working in my favor). Once I'm done, sleep won't have me back. I stare wide-eyed at the wall, lying on my side. I pluck anxiously at the fastening tie on my dressing-gown.

Hours pass. I get up and dress myself. I've decided I am going to phone my family. I need to talk to them. I need them, and it scares me. I've heard of people who can live off one memory, one thing that keeps them going. So I'm hoping that, if I hear their voices, if I speak to them again, perhaps I can survive on that. Maybe their voices will stay in my head and guide me somehow. It's unlikely, but I can't resist trying.

I've gone completely off my head, round the bend and back again, and I know it.

In the phone-booth, I dial the number for home. It rings and rings, but nobody picks up. Our phone is always breaking down. Susan and Mum have both taken it in countless times for fixing.

On a whim, I make a choice almost as bad as the suicidal one last night. I call the Featherstone household. Because, if _our_ phone is broken, perhaps Mum and Susan are over there, in case I call. Mr. Featherstone doesn't dislike them as much as he does me. He'd let them linger round his house for a while if they wanted.

I don't let myself realize how unlikely that scenario is until it's too late. Anne picks up, and I make the mistake of saying "Er, hello?" instead of just hanging up the phone as soon as I recognize her voice.

Anne sobs loudly into the phone. The way she talks, you would think I was lying dead on the arena floor already.

I develop an earache and try my best to make her stop blubbing. I'm about to give up when I see Jill Pole outside of the booth, looking in through the glass.

She looks away when she senses my eyes on her, like she's trying to say, "No worries, I'm not listening to your conversation," but I know she hears everything. And, really, I don't particularly care.

In fact, just her standing there, needing to use the phone at the same moment I'm stuck on it with my over-dramatic girlfriend from back home, I have never felt so wholly endeared to my fellow tribute. I seriously hope somebody else kills her off in the arena and I don't have to. Because, right now, she's my hero.

Not that I'm going to make it apparent. But I do slam down the phone as hard as I can. I mutter something about our allotted five minute phone calls not being short enough as I pass Jill. I don't even say thank you, or let myself imply that I want to. That would be too dangerous. We are not a team, matching holograms aside.

Not even the girl from 1 who squeezed her fellow tribute's hand during Lord Snow's speech is part of a team here. It's every man for himself.

Including the mentors. Even if they're weirdly friendly sometimes. I still don't know what Peter wanted last night, but whatever it is, he's sure as anything not getting it from _me_.

Nothing impressionable happens until it's time to go to training. I have breakfast by myself, I avoid the Avox's eyes as he serves me, and I let my mind go blank. It's boring, thinking of nothing, but it's better than everything else that's been rattling around in my brain since my name was drawn in the reaping. Susan was right all along: boring _was_ safe. I just wish I'd truly appreciated it before, when I had the chance.

Riding down in the elevator, I finally let my thoughts switch back on. Perhaps because I don't like going down in it any more than I liked going up and I want something-anything-to distract me. Even the blasted Hunger Games.

Even though I never trained illegally, preparing for the chance that I might be called to the Capitol for the games, I know I'm useless at archery, and that I can wield a sword all right but might be a bit rusty. In front of the other tributes, I plan only to use an axe however. This will remind them of Johanna. They'll think they know what I'm like. They'll compare me to her. Same district, not too far apart in age. Of course we will be somewhat similar in their eyes.

They won't expect me to fight differently than she did the year she won, aside from the lack of put-on fear. But they won't know what my natural fighting style is like. Bad or good, depending on the situation, it'll take them by surprise. It's the only thing I can come up with at the moment that will put the odds in my favor.

I wish Johanna would tell me _something_. She's supposed to be mentoring me. But she just watches my face, as if she knows what I'm planning and approves.

But doesn't she realize that my plan has a blind spot, too? That if they think I'm like her, they might try to rectify the mistake of the tributes from that Hunger Games and kill me off right away?

 _You idiot_ , I think to myself, answering my own poorly thought out dilemma, _they'll want to kill you straight-off anyway, because you're not a Career and you're reasonably strong-there's nothing wrong with you physically they can prey on once they narrow down the competition. They can't bump you off at moment's notice, not as they can the boy from 6 with the spectacles. Your plan won't do any further harm_. _Just don't let them know it's a sword you really want, stick with the axe for as long as possible._

Training takes place in a basement underneath the ground floor, in this gigantic gymnasium filled with weapons and targets and fighting professionals. It's so large because it doesn't only run the length of the tower the tributes live in. It runs the whole length of the building.

A surprisingly tall woman called Atala explains to us that the gymnasium is divided into sections that are clearly marked by signs hanging over stations and booths. We are free to travel back and forth between these stations and booths as much as we like, provided our mentors don't tell us otherwise. If they do, we're supposed to listen to them. She says it like it's news, but I doubt it is for anyone.

Then it is reestablished that we're not supposed to fight-even on a truce basis for practice-with another tribute. The professionals are there for a reason and we need to let them do their jobs. We're also not supposed to shoot arrows at the other tributes' mentors.

Since Atala adds that latter bit on at the last minute, I wonder if this happened in recently. Some kid going nuts with the archery equipment and trying to take out the past victors.

There is also no flash photography, tobacco smoking, or drinking of alcoholic beverages (here Atala pauses, reaches out, and snakes a flask out of the hands of the drunk District 12 mentor, who angrily exclaims, "Hey!") allowed.

Johanna sits in a metal folding chair next to the mentors from District 5 and ignores both Jill and myself. It's not surprising that she would be on semi-familiar terms with a victor from 5. District 5 is very close geographically to District 7. Before Panem rose to power, it was called Beaversdam and was technically still part of the Lantern Waste. If it weren't for the peacekeepers enforcing rules and district limits, I probably would have crossed the line into 5 without permission by pure accident while out for a walk countless times growing up. And Johanna, because she lives by herself and is a Hunger Games victor, has no problem getting permission to go where she will most of the time. I doubt she even has to show paperwork to our peacekeepers when she wants to go trotting off into District 5.

But I don't know anybody from 5, and none of the other mentors-more interesting looking persons-are sitting around while their tributes wander aimlessly, only Johanna and the people from 5. So I grow bored and wander off to the archery section.

I shoot my best and still miss the bulls-eye by a mile. But, of course, I fully expected to be awful at this, so I'm not cross. I somehow even manage to get an arrow deeply embedded into the _back_ of the target and another one hopelessly stuck in the ceiling rafters.

All the same, I _am_ a little chaffed when the boy tribute from District 3 looks over at me with a lopsided grin and jestingly says, "Better luck next time, eh squirt?" as if there is some massive age difference between us.

If it weren't for that unfortunate rule about not practicing on the other tributes, I would try to use _him_ as my next target.

The girl from 3 gives me a icy glance and bites the corner of her mouth so hard I expect the skin to break and blood to come out of it, though I can't imagine her blood could be any redder than her lips already are.

But she also looks disdainfully at the boy from her own district, too, and for a fleeting moment I feel sorry for him, even though he made fun of me. Most tributes from the same district are inattentive to one another at best, but something about her stare tells me she'll take full pleasure in killing _him_ , too, once she's done with me.

A few stations away, Cato is nailing a dangling dummy with a spear, right through the heart...then the stomach...then the face...

I can't look anymore, and I don't dare shift my eyes over to Clove, who is bound to be every bit as bad as her spear-throwing male counter-part. It's hard to remember _they're_ not a team, just likely early-on allies. Because even though they don't wear matching clothes or hold hands, they're so freakishly alike in some ways. Almost a male and female version of the same person. It's quite sickening.

So I find myself focusing on the little girl from 12. Her blonde hair is up in a bun today and she is busy learning camouflaging skills. In spite of being nervous, one brown-mud disguise makes her giggle and she grins over at the dark-haired girl mentor. "Look, Katniss! I blacked-out my face."

The drunk mentor mutters something I don't hear, even though the spacious gymnasium has a strong echo to it and almost everybody's voice carries here. But the little girl hears it and, whatever it is, it seems to have hurt her feelings.

Katniss glares at him, then smiles at the girl. "Don't mind Haymitch, Prim. He's just cranky because they took away his booze."

"Here," says the blonde boy mentor kindly, reaching over and smoothing out a dark lump of clay on Prim's left eyelid. "It's looking a little clumpy. Fold it over more, it looks less obvious that way."

"And what do you know about disguises, Peeta?" snorts Katniss, gruffly but not really unkindly.

"I do the cakes," he says proudly.

She furrows her brow at him, not understanding.

"At home, Katniss," he explains. "In the bakery. I frost the cakes. Ice the cinnamon rolls, too. Mother would just about kill me if they were clumpy."

He says the latter bit about his mother jokingly, in a fairly light tone, but there's an undeniable edge to his voice that I'm sure makes everyone who over-heard that comment wonder about it. I get the feeling his mother, back in 12, isn't as...er... _patient_...as mine in 7.

"Ouch!" someone cries.

Several heads, including mine, turn simultaneously to find the source.

The boy from District 6 has accidentally grabbed the wrong end of a dagger and sliced open the palm of his hand.

Both of District 6's mentors, followed by the beautiful girl tribute with the impractically long yellow hair, come racing over to him.

I think it's kind of the girl, considering that as a tribute and not a mentor she owes him next to nothing.

The first mentor to reach the chap (who is now clutching his bleeding hand and whimpering) is a young fellow with olive-coloured skin, shoulder-length dark hair, and the early starts of a growing-in beard. He's roughly the same age as Peter from District 1, give or take.

"I'm sorry, Caspian," says the boy shakily. "I didn't mean to."

"We will just call it bad luck, my friend," he sighs in return, shaking his head.

"Will he be all right?" asks the girl.

"Go back to archery, Lilliandil, I want to see you hitting the middle of the target at least twice before the end of today. Do you understand?" Caspian looks to her left at his fellow mentor. "Rhoop, take Ash to first aid, have them bandage his hand."

Rhoop, whose eyes are so impossibly buggy they look as if they're going to bounce out of his head at any given moment and bushy gray beard is ungroomed and shaggy, loudly barks something about Ash being doomed.

It's true, but I'm sure the poor chap doesn't appreciate it being said. He's probably scared enough as it is _without_ one of his mentors openly despairing of him in front of all the other tributes. Rhoop might as well be signing the kid's death warrant, talking the way he is. I decide I don't like him much. He makes Johanna seem like a prime candidate for 'mentor of the year'. Caspian's all right, though. He appears to act more like a Hunger Games mentor is supposed to.

When I look back at Prim, she's gotten away from her mentors and is sitting next to Gael from District 4.

Gael is supposed to be tying knots for nets and traps training, but she's lost interest and is playing cat's cradle with some of the thinner ropes instead. Prim is evidently fascinated by this and wants to play, too.

Haymitch barrels over and grabs his charge's arm. He doesn't dare grab it too roughly, though, not with Katniss looking on. From watching them, I've decided that Prim, while she looks nothing like Katniss, is actually her sister.

It must be awful, having to prepare your own sibling to fight to the death. Or, more likely, to put up one dashed impressive struggle before they die. Prim's so small. What chance does she have? Katniss must know this. She must have known it from the first.

The District 4 mentor takes the ropes from Gael's hands and undoes her cat's cradle, handing them back to her in a neat loop. He gives Haymitch a hard look, as if the tangle of ropes is _his_ fault.

Prim refuses to go back to the camouflaging station but glumly agrees to stop talking to Gael and to quit playing around. She sits wordlessly beside Gael and ties knots like a good little tribute in training.

I tire of archery and go into hand-to-hand combat with one of the trained professionals. Because the boy I'm paired up with is the same weight and height as me, it's a fair practice and I find I'm not half-bad at fighting with my bare hands. If it weren't for the dirty tricks I know at least the Careers and the girl from 3 are bound to use, I might actually have a shot at surviving in the arena. I can fend for myself even better than I thought.

After that, so as not to give too much away, I try a bit of axe throwing. I learn which size axe is best for my wrist. This should come easily, since I live in a bloody forest, a district full of trees, but I have to give Johanna full credit for being so handy with one of these things. I knew they were heavier than they looked, but after shooting arrows and fighting, my own body's growing weariness makes the heaviness more of a hazard to me. And I know I'm going to be much, much more tired after a day in the arena than I am now, just training. This is nothing.

All it is, plain and simple, is more proof that the Capitol would prefer a Career to win. Because they never stop them training before the games, against the rules as it is, and yet it's impossible for those of us who don't have much prior experience in some of these skills to learn them thoroughly in only three days.

Nearby the archery station, a girl tribute screams.

Another accident? I wonder, turning my torso to see what's happening _now_.

It wasn't a cry of physical pain, it turns out. It was one of blind rage. The little girl from District 1 is trying to fight one of the professionals. Not for practice. It's an archery professional, not a hand-to-hand combat professional. She's simply mad at her for something.

"How dare you speak of my brother like that!" she screams, lunging forward at the archery girl.

In spite of her age and small size, I would bet my money on the District 1 girl. She's real Career-stock after all. Her real colours seem to be showing through. I never imagined she could look this angry. Maybe she'll be more deadly in the arena than the way she clutched that puppy during the opening ceremonies, looking so pathetic, made me give her due credit for. I'll have to watch my back. She could probably jump on it and stab it with a dagger if I got her as upset as she is now. The other Career tributes will be glad of her now, I'm sure.

But before she can make contact with the lady archery trainer, Peter comes over and grips her elbows, pulling her back. "Sharp's the word! The last thing we need is another lawsuit!"

Flushed, the District 1 girl turns her head to look at him. I notice there are tears in her eyes. Her nose is red, her eyes are puffy, and she looks as hurt as she does furious.

If she wasn't a Career, I think shamefully, I'd feel pity for those tears, now sliding down her chin.

"Did you hear?" croaks the girl brokenly.

"I did," says Peter, his voice forcibly stern. "And I don't want you fighting my battles for me. I've told you before."

"Peter..."

"Lucy, please don't make this any more difficult than it already is." He swallows hard. "This isn't helping."

"I hate this," she says hoarsely.

He clenches his jaw. "No more archery. Go tie knots with Eustace."

"Eustace should be learning sword fighting, not trapping," she says. "He's getting rope burn."

"Don't change the subject, Lu, just go." He points over to where Gael, Prim, and-I notice for the first time-the District 1 boy tribute are sitting. " _Go_!"

"Peter, I-"

"Lucy, that's _enough_."

She gives him one last look, somewhere between a pleading glance and a scowl, and does as she's told.

"And _you_ ," says Peter, glaring at the archery professional who provoked her. "If you have something to say to me, say it to _me_ , not to the tributes put in my charge. They're training; I don't want them distracted by your mindless gossip. I can and will report you if this happens again. I hope we understand each other. Good day, Madam!" He turns his back to her and stalks off brusquely.

Fumbling to make sense of what I just witnessed, my mind clumsily assembles the pieces-the clues, the obvious.

The girl's name _is_ Lucy. But she's clearly too young to be Peter's love interest. He told her not to fight his battles for him, after she shouted at somebody for speaking ill of her brother.

It wasn't his girlfriend he was telling to stop watching, during his Hunger Games. It was this little girl. His sister. He didn't want her young mind scarred with the mental image of his gory televised death.

And she isn't so little after all. Assuming she's the same sister Peter was talking about on the roof, she would be only a year younger than me, not twelve as I took her for at the opening ceremonies.

This is painful. He loves her so much, and he's setting her up to die. Or to kill. She doesn't have a choice. She's a Career, through and through, by birth and by the slip of a finger in the reaping bowl in District 1. She has to be.

"Stop gawking and pick up that bloody axe already!" Johanna shouts at me from her seat, her hands cupped around her mouth.

Resentful, I pick it up and throw it.

Shockingly, it hits, and deeply embeds itself in the wooden human-shaped silhouette target.

Right above where its heart would be if it had one.


	8. Chapter 8: Jill

On the second day of tribute training, I spent hours at the camouflage station. It had occurred to me that, if I was good at moving quietly, avoiding detection, and running fast, I might as well learn to be a good hider into the bargain. It would be even harder for the other tributes to catch me if, after I out-ran them, they couldn't see me too well.

There wasn't much company, as most of the other tributes who wanted to learn camouflage already had the day before, probably so they could focus more intently on trappings and weapons and other things that would keep them alive in a brutal fight and fed in dangerous surroundings.

Secretly, I wondered how much of the trapping skills picked up in training, legally at the center or otherwise, would truly be used on animals for food. Mightn't a net or a cruel metal hook that closed on a fleshy ankle be used on a rival tribute early on to eliminate the competition? The Careers very likely would do something of the sort; I strongly doubted they were above such a harsh tactic. So I figured I needed to learn more about spotting traps a long way off (and getting _out_ of them if I didn't) than actually setting them myself.

I could be hungry, I was from a poor family, but I couldn't bear the thought of being crushed under a net, enclosed in a collapsed rock. I would rather die straight off than face that.

And that, it turned out, was something that made my plans to run and hide from the other tributes more frightening-and therefore more challenging-to me.

I didn't mind the notion of running in the open, or darkening my face and pressing close against a tree, but crawling into a cave or hole? Mercy, no! I would be wholly petrified!

I hated small dark spaces. Especially tight ones. Yes, I hadn't had a bit of trouble climbing up inside that dark turret to the roof, but that was different. That space was wide. Even in the dark, I knew I would not be pressed in too close or suffocated. The air around that ladder wasn't stale, even though _had_ it smelled faintly like rust in some places.

But the bigger, stronger tributes would surely patrol everything open in the arena, looking for victims.

And it wasn't as if I could plan ahead too carefully, seeing as one never knew for certain what the arena would be like from one year to the next. It might be a jungle, a forest, a desert, even a tundra.

I definitely didn't want a jungle or a tundra. One was too foreign, the other too cold.

I saw one year where, in a particularly snowy arena, almost every single tribute froze to death except the victor.

Very anticlimactic, perhaps, but still jarring. No one deserved to die like...well, like _that_.

A desert might be all right, even if it were hot. The weather at least would be almost guaranteed warm and everything would be open. A forest would be good because it might be a little-a very little, as likely as not, but close enough-like home, like District 7.

It had been a forest the year Johanna won. I knew that had to of been a factor in tipping the odds in her favor.

Also, I couldn't help thinking it was a pity there weren't any stations (not even the smallest booth, no matter how many corners I peered into, going back and forth from the set-ups of the various professionals) for bow making. They didn't always have bows and arrows in the cornucopia at the start of the Hunger Games, so the least they could do was teach us how to _make_ one.

The cornucopia, filled with gleaming weapons, water-proof packs, unquestionably safe food, and other goods was always right in the middle of where the tributes came up into the arena. Many little things were scattered around it, but the best items, the most useful, were always deep inside the cornucopia itself.

The closer you got, the better chance you had of getting something that would prove invaluable to you later on.

Unfortunately, it also meant throwing yourself head-first into a potential blood-bath. It wasn't smart for tributes from non-career districts to simply bolt towards the middle of the cornucopia without an escape plan, not if they valued their lives.

The Careers and other strong tributes who risked making alliances with them usually had no qualms about breaking in their newly procured weapons by running a weaker, less swift, poorer tribute through before they could get away with whatever they'd managed to snag.

Johanna told me only an idiot would try it. During her Hunger Games, she'd gotten her axe off of a dead tribute before they took the body away. Why the Careers that killed the tribute in question didn't take the axe for themselves when they had the chance, I'd never fully understood. But it's most likely they figured they had enough weapons and that pathetic little Johanna Mason from District 7, Panem's famous coward who basically did nothing but sob inconsolably through her entire interview before the games started, wouldn't know how to use it; their first mistake.

Somehow, I doubted anyone would leave a bow and quiver of arrows on another tribute's corpse for me to take, even if I feigned incompetence, which I hadn't been _quite_ as much as I ought to have at that point. Not even as much as I _meant_ to. In some ways, however much I down-played the matter, I was still being a little show-off, and I knew it.

I would need another plan.

Edmund; now _he_ might survive a quick dash to the cornucopia, as I knew _I_ couldn't, even if I was the faster runner. Because he was stronger and bigger. Me, I needed something else to rely on. Speed alone might get me to a source of water (lake, ice-hole, pond, whichever was to be found in the arena) before the Careers found it and blocked it off, but it wouldn't do me much good if, while I bent down to pick up a bow, another tribute's sword came smashing down on the back of my neck, killing me.

It was a gory mental picture, and I felt sick just thinking about it.

My darkened face recoiled involuntarily.

I wasn't really looking at anybody in particular, but my unpleasant facial expression did end up in the general direction of the boy tribute from District 1. Not on purpose, of course, but he was standing there, and my head was turned that way at the moment.

"I say, what are _you_ looking at?" he snorted, tossing back his head.

He really was so laughably puny. It was hard to imagine _him_ slicing off any heads at the cornucopia. I bet he couldn't stand a chance against the girl from his own District, let alone the boy from mine, or even myself.

Even though we all still had breakfast and supper on our own floors, because training was so intense and we only had three days to learn what we could, we took the noon meal in this medium-sized cafeteria that branched off from the back of the gymnasium.

It wasn't so different from being in school, just on a grander scale. I had to slide a tray along a row of buffet carts and then sit down by myself (not even Edmund sat with me-for some reason he didn't sit at a table at all, choosing to sit in a chair by a water fountain in the corner, eating with his tray on his lap). The only real difference was that I didn't have to pay for the food, which was much more plentiful and well-cooked than the (occasionally discontinued) meals at the school back in District 7. All I had to do was show a little plastic identification card with my district number on it and the lady minding the cart would nod and wave me forward.

The Careers were the popular kids, sitting together, sometimes even laughing. There didn't seem to be much to laugh about, but they did anyway.

I noticed, however, that the twelve year old girl from District 4 looked, by turn, continuously bored and anxious. She seemed to like sitting next to the blue-eyed girl from District 1 fine, but she appeared a bit afraid of the others. The girl and boy from 2, for instance, made her so nervous she wouldn't even sit on the same side of the table as them if it could be helped. I wondered, if she was frightened of them in the cafeteria, how she would hunt down non-Careers with them in the arena. How would she ever accept them as her temporary allies? They might've still expected her to, young as she was.

The girl from District 1 herself wasn't much better. It was pretty obvious that, while there was a grudging peace between her and the tributes from District 2, they weren't the sort of companions she would have picked out under different circumstances. She was friendly enough with them, and she got along with the older boy from District 4 as well as the little girl, but it was plain to see she was far more curious about the non-Career tributes than she ought to have been.

It wasn't any of my business, whether or not the all Career tributes truly liked one another. And even it was, I wouldn't have cared much. After all, what was the good in them being fond of each other? Once we were all gone, wouldn't it be one another they'd be trying to kill next? So, I turned to my meal and wolfed it down.

That's the problem with being poor, you always eat like you'll never see food again. I minded my manners of course, but that still didn't mean I slowed down the speed at which I chewed and swallowed.

Before I knew it, I was full and my tray was empty, save for a large number of crumbs and a used napkin.

I knew I would have to be at the Capitol far, far longer than the sparse time left before the Hunger Games started before I started taking all this fine dining for granted.

I pushed away my tray and reached across the empty table for a book I'd found, up in my room on the 7th floor, which I was reading.

It wasn't much, but it was a distraction in-between Hunger Games preparations. I wasn't sure who'd left the book in my room, yet I did imagine all sorts of possibilities which I allowed to occupy my mind whenever I was worrying too intently about what was to come, or about how horrid I'd felt after hanging up on my parents that one time.

I pictured a girl, a little older than me, coming here as a tribute, carrying the book with her. I imagined her reading on the train, lost in the perils of the story's heroine instead of her own. But I never let myself picture her during the Hunger Games. When it came to that point, I quickly changed my pretending and she became a tragic Avox girl instead of a tribute, Capitol-bred, no longer one of our own from District 7, accidentally dropping the book somewhere on the floor while cleaning the room.

The story itself wasn't bad. It was full of magic and wonder with queer descriptions of enchanted forests with funny names, naughty water-sprites, big manors, goblins and fey-even a giant who could change his size at will. The characters, chiefly a masked man and a golden-haired woman (it was a romance), were a little bland, somehow too one-dimensional to inhabit their utterly beautiful and complicated world between the pages. But all the same, it was almost nice to read about people who had no other side to them, who were either all good or else all bad. It was less complicated than what I saw in the Training Center daily.

Everything would be so much easier if all the tributes were as one-dimensional, as black-and-white, as the characters in the pale blue hardback romance novel that had been abandoned in my room who knew how many years before.

"You know, people who read fairy-tales," snorted a voice above me in a very self-righteous tone, "are always the sort that become a hideous burden to people like me, who read books of real information."

I looked up from my book, annoyed.

The boy from District 1 was standing by my table. He appeared to have just been dumping the contents of his tray into the garbage. And instead of returning to his table straight-off, he'd evidently decided to stop and criticize my reading material.

Over by the water fountain, close enough to hear what the little tick had just said to me, Edmund rolled his eyes, but he didn't say anything. He just plucked an apple off of the side of his tray, which had been starting to tip back and forth like a teeter-totter on his lap under the fruit's weight.

"Hideous burden?" I repeated incredulously, scowling. "By gum! All I've seen _you_ do in training is rub cold cream onto your rope burns." This wasn't strictly true; he had done a bit of sword-fighting that I'd seen, though, to be sure, he was mediocre at best, holding his weapon badly and flapping his arms like a drunken pelican attempting to take flight.

All the same, it was close enough to the truth to make his face go rather red. "Well! At least my books make _sense_." He snatched the book out of my hands, flipped it open, and, clearing his throat pompously, read a passage at random.

He'd picked the longest, most flowery speech out of the book. "Not fair," I said.

"Sure it is," he insisted. "Nobody talks like that." He flipped a few more pages, muttering, "It would take these people five hours just to ask to pass the butter."

"May I have my book back, _please_?" I growled through gritted teeth.

"Don't see why you would _want_ it," he said. "It's stupid."

"I like it," I snapped. "And it isn't stupid at all. Go back to your own table and leave me alone."

"I'm not at your table, only standing next to it. Besides, they're all the Capitol's tables-I don't see your _name_ on it. And it's a pathetic idiot's story."

"It's a perfectly lovely book, and plenty intelligent too," I told him heatedly. "Not that I would expect the likes of you to understand it."

We were becoming quite the spectacle. The mentors were watching us, as were most of the tributes, except for the girl from District 11 who was too busy admiring her hair in a little brass hand-mirror. I didn't care. Who was this rude Career boy to tell me what I should and should not read?

He had the odds in his favor since the day he was born, his size excluded. Maybe _he_ didn't need a storybook to distract him from the misery of being taken away from home to be prepared to fight to the death, but it wasn't an honour for _me_ , and I needed something-no matter how small-to look forward to. I needed a reason to get up in the morning. Even if it was only a flowery novel where the dim-witted heroine clearly wasn't playing with a full deck.

" _Intelligent_?" He flipped a few pages. "All right, District 7, explain what the heroine's doing here and how it's even remotely intelligent."

I looked at the passage, cross because I wasn't to that point in the book yet and he was spoiling it for me. "She's distraught," I argued. "Her lover was kidnapped."

"It was her own fault. It says so in the paragraph right above it. What's she doing just sitting there blubbing in the ransacked manor for three days?"

"She's...uh, _thinking_..." I came up with, blushing furiously. I couldn't believe I was defending what was probably the dumbest heroine ever conjured up in an author's mind since the beginning of Panem, but I couldn't just let him win the whole debate, not when he was being so pretentious and rude. "Thinking up a strategy for his rescue. So there!"

Edmund crunched loudly into his apple. Glancing over my shoulder, I could see that he was trying not to laugh.

"Uh, no," said the boy from District 1, finally holding the book out to me. "She's trying to grow a brain, that's what she's doing."

"Give it here." I snatched the blue volume out of his grasp.

"Don't be so grabby," he said.

"Oh, go away and mind your own business. Nobody asked you to come over here, did they? And you're a nice one to be telling me what to do," I blurted. "Go back to the Careers and talk intelligence and strategy with _them_ , why don't you?"

"Careers?" he repeated, arching a light eyebrow.

The 'Careers' was a term coined by the poorer districts-the actual Careers themselves wouldn't use it, of course. I'd just been too upset to consider that. "Like you don't know what everybody else calls your sort."

"My sort?" He didn't look so angry anymore, more confused and perhaps a little hurt. "Is that fair? I mean, now look here..."

Considering the softening of his tone, I believe _now_ that he didn't mean any further insult, that he was done jibing at me. Only, he did begin very like a person about to start a lecture and I wasn't in the mood.

I understood that even while Career-stock tributes usually _wanted_ to be part of the Hunger Games, they didn't _choose_ to be born or raised that way. It was as much an accident of birth as my being born in 7 and being taught only to pretend to love the games.

All the same, I turned my head in the opposite direction, folding my arms across my chest, wrapped around the book.

He sighed, giving up. "All right, then." There was the faint sound of something being put down on the table.

I looked once he was gone. A peppermint.

There had been a big bowl of peppermints on one of the buffet carts but the Careers and the districts that came after them but before 7 took them all. I'd been disappointed.

I wondered if the boy from District 1 had noticed and saved it for me on purpose.

It seemed absurd that a spoiled Career-stock boy would take notice of anything I did, yet he had noticed my book and started a row with me about it. If he could notice that, what else could he notice? Who said he only noticed things he considered worthy of his scorn?

I wondered, a little guiltily, if before he'd started off about the book and I had gotten all worked up about it, the reason he stopped at my table in the first place was simply to leave the peppermint for me.

Perhaps he wasn't so horrible. He was a terrible conversationalist, obviously thought too highly of himself, and had dreadful opinions of literature, but he might have genuinely been trying, little though it seemed at the moment, to be kind.

Edmund crunched into his apple again. I sullenly unwrapped the peppermint and put it in my mouth.

Back at the Career's table, it looked as if the boy from district 2 was saying something to the girl from 1.

The boy from 1 sat back down, barely acknowledged. It was as if they hadn't even noticed him getting up, never-mind watched as he quarreled with me a moment ago.

The girl from 1 furrowed her brow and suddenly rose, picking up her half-full tray, holding it out in front of herself. "I don't care what you say; I think you're nothing-you and Clove _both_ -but a couple of swaggering, bullying, self-satisfied brutes. All you think about is killing things!"

"Lucy!" exclaimed the boy from 1, reaching up and gripping the tip of her elbow with his index and middle fingers and his thumb.

"Eustace, let me go." She lightly shook her elbow out of his grasp.

The boy from District 2 stood up, nearly towering over her, and while I couldn't see the look on his face, since his back was to me, I knew it couldn't be a friendly expression in the least.

Lucy craned her neck upwards and stared him right in the eyes. "Goodbye, Cato."

The little girl from 4 bit down on her lower lip and looked nervously after Lucy as she started walking away.

A moment later, the boy from 4 whispered something in the little girl's ear and she got up, racing across the cafeteria to catch up with Lucy. "Wait!"

Lucy stopped and, bending down, inclined her ear so that Gael could repeat whatever it was the boy had told her. "I'm sorry about Peridan, and you, Gael," she said, speaking quietly but still clearly enough to be heard a little ways off. "But I don't think it's right."

"Peridan will look after Eustace," Gael said.

"And you," added Lucy.

Gael smirked and shook her head.

"What are you planning?" Lucy appeared to be fighting against a small smile of her own.

"Same as you," she told her, glancing over at where the little blonde girl from District 12 was sitting with one of her mentors: the girl victor with the dark hair who'd fainted at the reaping.

"Best of luck," said Lucy, reaching out and squeezing her hand.

"You too." Gael swallowed hard, nodding somberly.

What is it they're going to do? I wondered, baffled.

They parted ways. Gael started walking very determinedly towards the table where the tribute and victor from 12 sat-the one she'd glanced at. Lucy walked over to where the boy and girl tribute from District 11 sat, both respectively at opposite ends.

The girl looked even more startled to see Lucy coming towards them than she'd seemed when her name was drawn on television at her reaping. She put down her mirror and touched her own shoulder instinctively, almost like she was reaching for the paw of her monkey, as if for comfort, before she remembered her pet wasn't with her.

The boy, for his part, looked just as surprised but far more reserved. There was nothing very outwardly revealing about his alarm; only the slightest hint of a puzzled expression mixed with mild intrigue flitted across his dark face.

"May I?" asked Lucy, gesturing down at the table with the corner of her tray.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Gael sitting down beside the girl from 12.

"Yes, of course," said the dark-faced tribute quickly and graciously, fighting against what might have been a faint stammer. "Please, sit."

Edmund's eyes widened and his half-eaten apple fell out of his hand, landing on the floor in front of him, bouncing once then rolling over on its side.

The face of the mentor from District 1 went very white. "Great Scott!"

The mentor from District 4 sighed heavily. "The girl doesn't have the sense of a jellyfish!" He stood up and marched over to Gael. "What are you doing?"

"Picking an ally," she said, tucking two pieces of her long dark hair behind both ears so that they weren't hanging in front of her face. "Oh, and eating." She picked off a piece of bread-crust from the sandwich on her tray and put it in her mouth.

The District 4 mentor rubbed his temples. I noticed for the first time that, his standoffish manner and currently troubled expression aside, he was strikingly good-looking: darkish bronze-coloured hair and sea-green eyes.

Straining a little, I was able to remember the year he won.

It was difficult simply because he was from a Career district. Victors were of Career-stock so often that unless they did something extraordinarily impressive, they were often quickly forgotten in District 7. At least, that was the way among the people _I_ knew from home. Perhaps others thought differently, remembering the individual faces and names better than my parents or myself.

This victor-Finnick, I thought his name was, recalling it only because I had a dim memory of his last televised interview where he read a rather rummy love poem aloud and there was this great hubbub and fuss over who it'd been meant for, since he never said-hadn't done anything very interesting. Well, that is, unless you counted running a number of other tributes through with a big silver trident, which I didn't. He was handsome, yes, but I privately thought anybody who went around savagely skewering people with a sharp weapon shaped like a giant fork and then acted all flirty and up-beat almost immediately afterward would be rather a shameless tyrant.

Although, to be fair, he did seem truly concerned about Gael. And I couldn't blame him.

At the time, I don't think I _fully_ understood what was happening, not as well as Edmund or the mentors did, but I knew it wasn't smart for a Career to go rogue. It had never happened during any of the Hunger Games in my lifetime that I knew of. I'd never seen a Career group that didn't at least grudgingly stick together until the less wealthy district tributes were killed off.

My mother once told me that a long time ago, during one of the Hunger Games aired when she was a child of seven or eight, a very strong tribute girl from District 2 (big as an ox, she stated, not meanly, just by way of description) had chosen to go off on her own instead of helping the other tributes. She didn't form alliances with any of the lesser tributes, though. She just waited, hiding out. Then she used her weapon-wielding skills to finish off the remaining Careers who mistakenly thought she was weak from hunger because of not sharing in their stash. They didn't realize she had excellent sponsors, resulting in a good-sized food stash of her own.

Only, this was nothing like that. Neither Lucy nor Gael was 'big as an ox' and, sponsors or no sponsors, I doubted they were as sure-footed as me. And their plan wasn't to go off on their own; it was to team up with lesser Districts-11 and 12. That was like a slap in the face to the Careers. If Lucy had been from District 2, instead of 1, perhaps I would have thought she had some big last-minute, turn-about, plan involving a weapon, but that wasn't her district's specialty. And Gael? A little District 4 girl who'd have grown up fishing in a clear water creek? What could _she_ possibly have up her sleeve?

So I wasn't terribly surprised when Finnick turned and glared at Peter, who was coming up behind him. " _Your_ tribute planted this nonsensical idea in her head."

"Watch yourself, Finnick, you tread on thin ice," Peter said sternly, extremely defensive of his charge.

"Just do your job, Pevensie," snorted a girl's voice, which I realized, a little stunned, belonged to Johanna Mason.

I hadn't seen her come over, but there she was, sticking up for Finnick, almost like they were, for lack of a better term, _friends_.

District 4 wasn't anywhere near our district, located somewhere on the other side of Panem (I wasn't sure exactly _where_ ). I never thought somebody like Johanna Mason would have a friend (especially a former Career tribute) from that area. But, then again, Hunger Games victors _did_ travel with each other on tour quite a bit, so they could have met that way.

Nonetheless, albeit grumpily, Peter listened to them and did indeed go over to where Lucy sat and, gently tapping her on the shoulder, gave her a very direct, somewhat pained, 'get up _now_ , we need to talk' look.

She said goodbye to the boy from District 11 and, getting up and throwing out the remaining contents of her tray, went off somewhere else in the building with her mentor.

I didn't see her again until almost five minutes after everybody was done eating and training had been resumed. She looked very tired, but nothing she did, as she went through the motions of finishing up her training for the day, gave any clue as to what they'd discussed.

That night, I sat up wide awake, looking out of my window.

Through the middle of my thumb-ring (which I had taken off and was fidgeting restlessly with) I stared unblinkingly at a large round moon that was almost full except for a single silvery-white slice.


	9. Chapter 9: Edmund

Towards the end of the third and final day of training, the Gamemakers start calling the tributes in one by one for private sessions. They want to see what we can do so they can give us each a score and televise it several hours before our live pre-Hunger Games interviews.

This is supposed to help us pick up sponsors. But, really, it seems like an annoying chore more than anything else. True, unlike with public training, tributes don't have to hold back, not unless that's their strategy worked out with their mentor before-hand, anyway. That's happened. Tributes pretending to be bad at fighting. Johanna herself got a very low score on purpose to support her crybaby facade.

According to her, however, that is not what Jill and I should do. She wants us to show them everything. Truly let them know just how good we are.

Perhaps she has been having difficultly getting us sponsors. I know she wouldn't admit to it if that were the case. How do I know? Well, we _do_ think alike in some ways, and I know _I_ sure as anything wouldn't.

I'm sitting by the water fountain, eating off of my lap, just as I have for the past two days, and my eyes drift over to that Lucy-girl from District 1.

She's just come back from her meeting with the Gamemakers.

They go in order of district number, meaning she was the second person called in. She got her turn right after Eustace (his _full_ name, it turns out, is Eustace Clarence Scrubb, and if anyone in all of Panem so deserves it, he almost does), the boy she came here with.

I don't know what she showed them, or what score she's likely to get.

Honestly, though, she keeps surprising me.

This small-boned fourteen year old girl from District 1 is becoming quite the little radical.

Her first open display of mindless spunk almost could have been forgiven her. It wasn't against another tribute, and the person insulted her brother. So it shows she has an over-active sense of loyalty and that she's far tougher than she looks at first glance. But her second act, breaking away from the Careers, will cost her dearly.

It was a bloody stupid thing to do. If I had stood a chance of having Cato and Clove on my side, albeit temporarily, I wouldn't have burned that bridge so quickly. There's so much she could have learned from being around them early-on in the arena. Seeing first-hand how they make their kills could have made her wise to their ways by the time they turned on her.

But of course she _would_ be too headstrong and over-virtuous to think it through.

Somebody seriously needs to tell her that these are the Hunger Games and there's just no room for uncharacteristic Career-stock morality. If it wasn't required viewing, I would be wondering if the blasted girl ever even _watched_ the show before. That's how little she seems to know what she's doing, the effect she'll have.

How can she not know what this will do to her chances of winning?

Sure, Gael from 4 has done the same thing. But she's only a kid. And what little kid doesn't want to team up with someone their own age? If Gael hadn't been Career-stock, I would have predicted Prim as her ally from as early-on as the opening ceremonies. And Lucy could have talked her out of it but didn't.

When I saw (as I'm sure everyone did) Peter take his sister out of the cafeteria to talk after she abandoned the other Careers, I thought he was going to set it to rights. Get the blasted status-quo embedded in that thick head of hers.

Only, that appears not to have been the case. Whatever he tried, it's failed.

Lucy still sits, even right this second, upon her return from her session with the Gamemakers, with the boy from District 11.

The girl from that district sits near them, but whether she is part of their alliance is doubtful. She's barely even acknowledged the boy tribute from her district who's been with her all along, never-mind Lucy. It looks like she's going solo all the way in spite of the fact that she doesn't seem to be a self-sufficient person in the least.

Cato is called in to see the Gamemarkers. Rising from his table, he half-smiles at Clove. Then he's gone.

I wonder what he's showing them in there. Whatever it is, I don't doubt it will be impressive. Careers pretty much always get high scores, it's just a given. Cato is completely sure of his abilities. The Gamemakers are bound to like that. He's strong, skilled, completely lacking in any insecurities. In other words, he's marketable. His mentor has a fairly easy ride as far as his boy tribute is concerned; folks will be lining up to sponsor him. Everyone's known since the reaping, probably, that he's a crowd favorite to win. All he has to do is get a high score (and there's no question he will) and nail his interview by saying something impressionable. Then, just like that, he's set for the games. And if he wins, he's set for life.

How can you go wrong with that?

And his fellow District 2 tribute, Clove, the same.

Temporarily working together, there's no telling the things they'll accomplish in the arena.

Cato comes out, smirking as if his painfully obvious conquest is just a little secret between himself and the Gamemakers, like we all don't know he did well. And Clove goes in.

She comes out a little while later. In goes Heath (the boy from 3 who called me squirt). He comes out expressionless after his turn. Then it's the scary girl from his district. She's worse than Clove. I know this girl has a better chance of killing me than any of the other tributes, simply because she _wants_ to the most. I've heard her name, Jade or something, in passing during training.

When she comes back, she's grinning ear to ear, her white skin tight around the stretched line of her red lips.

I swallow hard and force myself to tear my eyes away from her.

Peridan from District 4 goes in. Then Gael. I wonder if she's showing them net-throwing and knot-tying. Or perhaps her mentor has taught her to use a trident. Too bad she's too small to _lift_ one properly.

The mental image of Gael carrying a trident as big as she is, trying her dashed best to look fierce, makes me want to laugh hysterically and feel extremely sad at the same time. I grimace.

Only two more districts to go before they call me in.

The 'dwarf' (Nick something or other) and that fox-faced girl from five (whose name I still haven't learned) have their sessions and come back.

District 6. The beautiful yellow-haired girl, Lilliandil, and the boy, Ash, with the spectacles. The girl might have something special, a useful hidden talent to show the Gamemakers, but the boy is hopeless. His low score will surprise nobody.

Me. They call my name and I stand up, getting rid of my tray.

It's time to go. Time to show them everything. Show them how I can fight. Prove to them that I'm not to be over-looked.

I'm not a Career, but I don't mean to give up myself as a lost cause.

If I can, I want to be able to go back home. Home-to my parents and Susan.

And, in order to do that, I think I'm going to need to be remembered as more than _only_ the laughing, sarcastic boy who fell out of his chariot during the opening ceremonies.

When I walk in, I can already see that some of the Gamemakers are getting a little restless. I seriously hope they aren't bored _already_ -after all, there are still five more districts to go after 7.

A few of them straighten up when they catch sight of me, though.

I must look promising.

I guess they weren't too impressed with Ash, poor chap. They're lucky he didn't put out an eye trying to show them the best of his meager abilities.

I force myself to smile. More of a wince is the final result. I can hear Johanna in my head calling me an idiot for not looking more appealing, but it's the best I can do. I just...I just hate them so much, I realize.

It's their job to figure out how we all die if another tribute doesn't get us first.

What will they plan this year? A dangerous surrounding? An avalanche? A cloud of poison? Berries that look harmless-like blue berries or raspberries-but will really kill you before they even reach your stomach? Or maybe they will send in mutts. A whole team of crazed blood-thirsty mutts. Tracker jackers. Birds with razor sharp beaks. The possibilities are endless.

As if it's not already bad enough.

And I'm supposed to want to impress them. To make them like me. I'm supposed to want these sick, sadistic people to want me to live. So they'll spare me. The irony is altogether too much.

Anywhere else, in any other given situation, cozying up to mad people in authority like this would be considered 'sucking up'. Here it's only what's expected. Of everyone-well, everyone who doesn't want to die, anyway.

There are rows of weapons. Bows and arrows, swords, axes, throwing-daggers. All very nice ones. Hilts flash with silver. Even one or two, I'm fairly certain with gold.

At first I think it can't be. Why so lavish? Surely it's only brass. But a moment later, I'm nearly positive it really _is_ gold. The Capitol is showing off. Here, all that glitters is gold, if it isn't silver.

Nothing base, nothing bland. No expense spared.

Never-mind that twenty-three of us will be dead by the end of this.

Till we're gone, we all deserve the best. And the Careers, the best of the best.

For starters, I pick up an axe and fling it. To remind them of Johanna Mason. To get their attention. Get them thinking that perhaps they are looking at this year's victor. Then I call over one of the assistants waiting in the corner should they be needed.

They aren't even permitted to _look_ at a tribute unless they're assisting them, because this is supposed to be a private session. It's like looking at a bunch of over-grown little children in time-out.

I'm going to show the Gamemakers my real skill now. Swordsmanship. I try a couple of different swords for size and weight. When I find the one that's just right, I feel strangely satisfied that it's one of the gold-hilted ones.

I don't know why it gives me such contentment, but it does.

This is my moment. For a little while, I'm not just some loser from District 7 fated to be one of the first killed off. Holding that sword, knowing I can do this, I feel truly sure of myself.

The assistant takes up a sword of their own, ready to go when I am.

The Gamemakers all nod, almost simultaneously. They're ready. I've got their curiosity peaked.

I block every blow from the assistant and I jump what feels like a mile high, leaping right off the ground and over the sword, when a slash is aimed at my legs. I spin round and throw the assistant off-guard with a trick they've apparently never learned.

The next thing we're all aware of, I'm panting, my sword pointed downwards, and the assistant is on the matted floor, weapon hopelessly out of reach.

That was impressive; I can see it all over the Gamemakers' faces. But I can't help wondering _how_ impressive. I bet Cato did sword-fighting too. I bet he amazed them with it, and will get a much higher score than me.

He will be remembered more readily than I will. Unless I do something shocking. But not too shocking. Nothing too risky. Nothing that could make them dislike me or consider me a loose-cannon.

All the same, showing them a little more spirit can't hurt, can it?

What to do?

I notice the Gamemakers have a bowl of fruit on their table. "Take out the apple and put it on the edge of the table," I say.

They looked at me with puzzled expressions, but after a few seconds of blinking at me, wondering if I can possibly be serious, one of them smirks lightly, as if in anticipation of something new, and does as I order.

I know I can't shoot that apple off the end of the table from across the room with an arrow. But I can still run the large piece of red fruit through-my way.

From where I stand as I back up further and further away, it begins to look more like a cherry than an apple.

I hope they're counting my paces, taking them into account. If I pull this off, it'll be well worth it.

I grab a dagger and hold the gleaming hilt of it in my hand the same way I have been holding my sword during this session. Then I pull my arm back, stick out my elbow slightly, squint hard, and throw.

The dagger flies through the air. It doesn't fly straight as an arrow would, though. No, instead, it flips over twice before it lands embedded diagonally in the apple.

I curse in my head. The apple has been pierced-almost expertly, which will definitely give me some points-but it hasn't fallen off the table. It teeters on the edge of the table, wobbling twice before it steadies.

If only there could be a sudden gust of wind. If only one the blasted Gamemakers could just _breathe_ heavy for a moment. Then the apple would surely fall off the edge with my dagger deeply inside of it, as I intended.

But the odds are not in my favor. Breathing in this room is very soft, practically non-existent. And the air is so still.

Useless, hopeless.

I haven't done it. I've been semi-impressive, worthy of a good score, but not memorable.

Come on, I think, fall over you bloody pathetic piece of fruit.

I'm about to turn away. I even come close to excusing myself without waiting for a proper dismissal from the Gamemakers. But then I hear a faint bang, like a round object hitting the floor.

No, I think, turning back round halfway. Have I done it?

At the last minute, the apple has fallen. The impact of the ground and the blade of my dagger has sliced it into two halves.

The Gamemaker who sits at the end of the table rises from his seat and bends over, picking up the two pieces of fruit. "A star," he says, holding up the pieces.

I look. If I'd cut the apple straight across, it would have just looked like a regular apple slice now. But as the cut was diagonal, it has made the impression of a star.

They look at me with interested grins. I've done it. If they're allowed to bet, they might even wager on me. Me, from District 7. I'm like Johanna, yet not like Johanna. I can use a sword and slice fruit in half from several paces away. The odds in this game, of the victor being from a poorer district this year, have just been upped in their eyes, and they're fascinated by the novelty.

I still hate them, but I can't help smiling back. Their admiration can only help me. And I need help.

"Thank you, Edmund Martin from District 7, you are dismissed."

I nod and turn to leave.

I am Edmund Martin, I think. I am fifteen years old. I am about to be in the Hunger Games. And, regardless of what I'm up against, I have every dashed intention now of winning.

I _am_ going home after this.

As I walk out of my session with the Gamemakers (passed Jill on her way in) and back down the hallway into the cafeteria, I'm surprised to see a familiar face.

There's this really pretty woman with long brown hair, the tips of which are dyed bluish-purple, talking to Peter and Lucy.

"You really shouldn't be here," Peter is hiss-whispering to her as I walk up to them. "Preparations for the Hunger Games are _private_."

"Oh, pshaw!" She waves that off. "Did you or did you not call me and tell me you wanted me to sponsor your tribute?"

"I didn't mean come _here_ ," Peter snaps. "Why can't you just watch for the scores tonight like everybody else?"

"Because I'm not everybody else," she snorts. "I'm famous."

Peter rolls his eyes.

"And impossibly rich." She looks very smug, cocking her head at him.

"I know. It was your money that introduced us, remember?" The disgusted expression on his face isn't a good one. It implies they have an unpleasant secret together.

Lucy glances back and forth between them, as if trying to figure it out, but seems unable to. Her sheltered mind can't sort their history out.

Unlike Lucy, I can vaguely guess at what it is, but I could be wrong. Besides, whatever history is between Peter and this woman only a few years his senior doesn't concern me.

Honestly, I'm more focused on trying to place the lady's face. I know I've seen her somewhere, but she's too glamorous for District 7, her style too overtly 'Capitol'. I don't know a lot about fashion, but I do know that it's mostly Capitol citizens that dye their hair bright colours like the tips of hers.

How could I know somebody from the Capitol? I haven't been here that long.

"Normally, I pride myself on supporting strong male tributes in the games, preferably from District 1," she goes on, ignoring Peter's sharp statement; "but this year, as the male tribute in your care is..." She glances across the cafeteria, over to where Eustace is sitting, blowing his nose into a cloth napkin. "Er, shall we say, less _promising_...? I'll consider sponsoring little Lubby here."

" _Lucy_ ," Peter growls.

"Whatever." She rolls her eyes impatiently. "Anyway, she's your sister, isn't she?" She reaches over and lifts Lucy's chin up. "I can see the resemblance. Although, to be frank, Peter dear, you're a great deal luckier in looks than she is. Not exactly a beauty, is she? She stops just shy of being pretty."

Lucy frowns angrily and her eyes look downward. I think, for the brief moment I catch a proper glimpse of them, that they're brimming with tears.

She _is_ a little on the plain side, but the lady was very unkind to remark on it. Anyway, what does it matter if a tribute is good-looking or not? I mean, sure, it doesn't hurt, but good looks aren't going to help the girl from District 11 if she can't tear her eyes away from that mirror of hers, and they won't help Lilliandil from District 6 if another tribute grabs hold of all that bright yellow hair of hers.

Lucy could look much worse than she does and still stand a better chance. Or, rather, she _would_ if she hadn't burned her bridges connecting her to the other Careers by sitting with the boy from 11.

Peter puts his arm around his sister protectively and pulls her away from the woman. "Get to the point, won't you? I'd forgotten you were impossible to have a straight-forward conversation with."

"Is it true she broke apart from 2 and 4?"

"No," he lies.

"Yes," Lucy blurts out.

"Lu!"

"Well, it's true!"

"I see." The woman looks hesitant. "Considering you asked me personally-very flattering, coming from _you_ of all people-I'll make you a deal, Peter darling. If your sister gets a score higher than a seven televised tonight, you've got yourselves a sponsor. If not, I invest my money in Cato from District 2."

"Fine." Peter is furious, it's plain to see, but he isn't going to bite the hand that might feed his sister.

Still, something over a seven is a very high score for a young girl, especially one of Lucy's size; the woman's terms are a bit unreasonable.

The woman whirls round and nearly bangs into me. "Goodness me!"

"Have we met?" I blurt out.

"I think I would remember that," she says, beaming at me and flipping her hair backwards over her shoulder.

If she were a little younger, I would think she was flirting with me.

"What district are you from?"

"Seven," I mumble at the floor.

"Well, it's a pleasure, District 7, but I have to go." She actually looks disappointed by this, not as if she's putting it on. "I might actually get married this year. Last year my lover's father had a stroke on the eve of my wedding and he had to marry somebody else to keep the family business going."

"I'm so sorry?" I crinkle my brow. She really doesn't sound too upset about losing the love of her life. The way she talks is very matter of fact.

"Oh, it happens all the time," she sighs. "An engagement here, engagement there. By the fourth season you learn not to get attached."

"Laurel!" I exclaim, snapping my fingers, finally remembering where I know her from. She's the actress who plays Laurel on my Mum's favorite soap.

She practically melts into a puddle of goo. "Aw, so you watch my show!" She does this weird nose-crinkling thing in my direction and, leaning forward, pinches my cheek. "Aren't you just adorable!"

"My _mum and sister_ watch it," I say defensively, rubbing my now-throbbing cheek. Suddenly she looks a whole lot less pretty. She's actually really, really annoying. Worse than _Anne_ , even.

I like Laurel much better when writers are telling her what to say to sound smart. Apparently, in real life, her brain doesn't have the same ability.

Even so, if (no, _when_ , it _has_ to be _when_...) I make it back home, I vow never again to correct my mum when she turns on _Emma Emerald_ by mistake.

Still, I can't help being a little jealous that Lucy might just get her as a sponsor. She's so clearly a Hunger Games junkie and has too much money to play with.

In other words, she's perfect.

As soon as 'Laurel' is out of sight, Peter turns to Lucy. "Lu, don't worry. You're going to have plenty of sponsors. You don't need her."

"Yes I do," Lucy whispers.

"Why do you say that?"

"Because you _called_ her." She sounds choked up. "You said you wouldn't contact her unless we were desperate." She trembles slightly. "Are we desperate, Peter?"

"All right, how is it you still forget to floss at night but you can remember I said _that_?" he exclaim-asks, folding his arms across his chest.

I notice he doesn't answer her question about them being desperate, deliberately avoiding it.

But I don't understand. Why should a District 1 tribute be wanting for sponsors? It's never happened before. Even Eustace should have at least a dozen. Never-mind _Lucy_. She should be _swarming_ in them.

What is going on here?


	10. Chapter 10: Jill

"Jill Pole, District 7," said the Gamemaker who was seated at the very middle of the table, an even number of other Gamemakers at both of his sides. "You may begin whenever you're ready."

That would be never, I thought. But I knew that wasn't what they meant.

Slowly, I approached the smaller table where rows of weapons were spread out. I reached for the bow and arrows straight-off.

The bow was made of a fine, glossy, finished wood so well polished I could almost see my reflection in it. It was the nicest I'd ever seen. There was even a crimson leather strap for my hand, so I wouldn't drop it if my fingers sweated.

Oh, if only there was some guarantee of getting a weapon just like it in the arena! I thought miserably, knowing full well that even if a gorgeous bow like the one I was holding in my hands _was_ in the arena, someone else would be likely to grab it before I could.

Unless, that is, I out-ran the other tributes (those that could shoot anyway-Edmund, for instance, wouldn't bother with a bow) and got to it first then took off like the wind.

Which wasn't impossible, of course, but was most certainly a plan with too many slippery faults and holes to take into account.

What would the Gamemakers think of me? They'd seen so many tributes already. It was too bad, really, that the room was not built at all like a forest, that there wasn't much way to show them how I excelled at woodcraft.

My archery would have to stand largely on its own, I realized, sobering up even more, if that was possible.

I could feel my fingers trembling, and I steadied them as hastily as I could. They would have time enough to tremble later, but I couldn't let them fail me then-not right then-and embarrass me in front of the Gamemakers. People-rich persons, sponsors-would be watching the scores when they were televised. A good score could persuade them to offer the girl from District 7 a helping hand in the arena.

My now still fingers curled tightly, as did the sides of my mouth-turning upwards into a smile, or a grimace. It hardly mattered which. My forehead creased in concentration and my eyes stung slightly as I squinted at the tiny red dot in the very center of the target. Swallowing hard, I fitted an arrow in the bow-string. I clenched my jaw and lined my shot, releasing both my aching, grinding teeth, temporarily dashed against each other, and the arrow at the same time.

The arrow struck its target perfectly. But I was perplexed by the fact that, while the Gamemakers clapped politely, they didn't seem all that thrilled. One of them even shrugged.

Didn't they realize they could jolly well be shrugging off my chances of winning, of coming out of this alive? I knew they were cruel-natured; they had to be, after all, given all the horrid things they came up with. The only time their tricks were used for the so-called 'greater good' was on occasion when a tribute was so mad that their winning fair and square would have been detrimental to society, usually when said tribute actually tried to _eat_ their human kills or do something else frowned upon to the corpse just because their deranged minds were so mixed up they couldn't tell how disgusting it is to us viewers, or simply didn't care. An avalanche or a landslide to kill them off was always forthcoming, courtesy of the Gamemakers. But to ignore a sane, perfectly stable tribute like this? How could they? How _dared_ they? I wasn't even in the arena yet. They were going to _kill_ me, those heartless brutes!

I felt panic gripping me, like cold hands at my throat, posing ready to squeeze. How could I win them over?

I looked back at my arrow, embedded in the target. An idea hit me. I breathed a sigh of relief. I knew what to do. I would be memorable yet!

I fired off another arrow. It, too, hit the target-the bullseye. So well, in fact, that it snapped the first arrow in _half_.

There! They couldn't miss how exceptional _that_ was, could they?

Polite clapping. One of them coughed.

I frowned. This was ridiculous. How did one get these stony-faced monsters with their clipboards and table full of food to take notice when it mattered? Was it really this hard for all the tributes? Had Edmund gone through this, too? I (angrily) thought the Careers must have done all right for themselves, because they were from the 'better' districts.

It wasn't _fair_.

So I put another arrow in the bow-string and shot again. It split the second arrow, in-between the first, in half too.

If there had merely been more clapping and coughing, perhaps I could have kept my self stable-for a few moments longer, anyway. If one of them hadn't been rude enough to _yawn_...

But they did yawn. And another one loudly whispered to the yawning person, "Not bad. Lucy from District 1 was better, though. _And_ she can climb and throw as good as a boy. My money would be on _her_ over this one. But this one's all right, I suppose."

 _This one_? That's all I was?

"Shh," hissed the Gamemaker on the opposite side of the whispering one. "She'll hear you."

I was glad one of them, at least, had some decency.

"These sessions are supposed to be private," they added warningly. "You can't talk about another tribute during somebody else's session. And this one's from a lesser district, too. She'll likely misuse anything she learns. And it would be our fault. We'd all lose our jobs, all because of your big mouth."

My stomach turned with fury. The 'kinder' Gamemaker wasn't defending my feelings, only their own job. And what did they mean 'lesser district'? Poorer district, yes. Non-Career, yes. But _lesser_? How was that even remotely called for? Never-mind that _I_ had thought of us, us from 7, in the same way before-as less than the Careers. I was too upset to consider that.

District 7 was more beautiful, with all its woods, than 1 or 2 could dream of being! 4 had its creek, I supposed, and their fish, but they didn't have our kind of beauty. And yet we were the ones to be pitied? Us with the clean air and the overwhelming smell of rich pine? I'd take pine over fish, smoldering metal, or the kind of paste and glue they use on the luxury items in District 1 any day!

How could it be that we, from District 7, weren't worth anything unless we could throw axes like Johanna Mason?

Before my session with the Gamemakers I had never truly believed that people saw red before they became dangerously full of rage. I never questioned that cliché again after. _Never_.

Red flashed before my eyes. And I was fitting another arrow in the bow-string though I barely realized it, barely felt my fingers at their task. The tips of my fingers were numb, but somehow that did not make me clumsy. I didn't drop a single arrow.

Red, red, red. Not crimson, not scarlet, just plain red. My feet moved speedily under me. I was running. The room blurred but I didn't fall from dizziness. I wasn't dizzy, even with everything spinning. The world was too fast and too slow at the same time.

Sparks of yellow, white, and even electric blue burst through the red; like fireworks. This happened three times in a row.

Then I was standing, panting, as shocked as the Gamemakers, most of whom had their hands pressed to their hearts. One was quaking under a clipboard being used like an umbrella.

The room was much darker than it had been a few seconds ago.

I looked up. Two of the lights above were shattered. Shards of glass lined the floor I had just run the length of. (Millions of tiny pieces, some probably too small even to see.) The glass hadn't been there then.

Think, think, I told myself. _Breathe_. What happened?

I replayed it in my mind, this time without the red flashes. Without my uncurbed anger. Then I saw it. I saw myself, as if through the Gamemakers' eyes. And I knew what I'd done.

It was coming back more and more quickly. I had been running-to show them how fast I was, I suppose. But that wasn't all. Like an idiot showing off even under duress, I had taken out three overhead lights with my arrows. Those were my triple-coloured fireworks that had broken through the flashes of red.

When the Gamemakers realized I wasn't going to put out any more lights, they seemed to calm down a bit. Hands were lowered back down onto the table in front of them (one side of which was also sprayed with broken glass, same as the floor), as was the solitary clipboard.

One of them muttered, "Good gracious."

Thinking back, I probably should have been able to tell that, while I had frightened them, they weren't angry. I'd actually, albeit unwittingly, done what I set out to do-I'd impressed them.

At the moment, though, I could hear my heart pounding and my ears aching and nothing else mattered. I was scared to death. And angry at myself, no longer _them_ so much.

The words, "Jill Pole from 7, you are excused," had bared died off their lips before I took off running out the door. (To be honest, I think I may have shown them my speed better with that than I had with my running light-breaking display, and I've wondered, from time to time, if that effected my final score, gave me extra points, or not.)

I didn't go back to training like I was supposed to. Instead, I took off for the elevator. No one was using it right then, since all the tributes and mentors were in the cafeteria, and so I rode up and down four times. By the fifth, I was starting to feel motion sickness-which had rarely ever struck me before, and it startled me so much that I withdrew deeper into shock, going to the 7th floor and walking slowly, extremely dazed, to my room.

Once there, I realized I was still carrying the bow. No arrows-I'd used them all up. Yet that hardly mattered.

Maybe now, I thought, the Gamemakers think I'm a thief as well as a lunatic. _Great_.

Oh what _did_ it matter? I flung the bow into a corner and threw myself onto the bed sideways. I was going to get a terrible score-out of spite-and no one would sponsor me, and I'd be one of the first killed off. I might as well just go for the blood-bath at the cornucopia, get it over with quick. In all the noisy confusion, perhaps I wouldn't even realize I was being killed till the world went black around me. And it likely wouldn't hurt by then. At least, I hoped it wouldn't.

There was a forceful knock at the door. "Jill Pole, what do you think you're doing?"

Johanna Mason. "Go away!" I called, my tone-I realize, now that I reflect on it-extraordinarily bratty.

"Gel, this is no time for a nap."

Pug. I winced. There was no need to dignify _his_ presence with a response.

I heard Johanna bark "Shut up!" at him. To me, through the door, she ordered, "You get out here right now. You have a lot of explaining to do."

After a few minutes of ignoring her, I eventually had to obey. I got up, pouting, thinking very differently than I had been when I'd first run into the room.

 _It wasn't my fault at all_ , I thought sullenly, _they had no right to ignore me like that. No right at all to compare me to another tribute. I'm every bit as good with a bow as Lucy from District 1 is! I'm sure I am. And if I'm not, then they shouldn't have said anything. It was mean, mean, mean. Oh, it wasn't my fault! And I'm going to be punished. How unjust! If they hadn't been so cruel I wouldn't have taken out those lights and all would be fine right now. Oh, if only they'd not jabbed at me so! There are some things no one can be expected to bear patiently._

I opened the door, my face red, puffy, and tear-stained.

"And just what do you have to say for yourself?"

My lower lip trembling, I blurted out the whole story. "And I...I didn't mean to hurt anyone...I can't pay for the lights, either, you know..."

Johanna rolled her eyes. "Is that all you were blubbering over?"

"What do you mean _all_?" My own eyes narrowed. Didn't she know how dreadfully serious this was? How could she _not_?

"It's nothing to fuss over," she snapped, glowering at me. "And nothing to pull a disappearing act on account of."

"How can you say that?" My eyes stopped narrowing and widened with shock instead. "They might even say I attacked them. What if they want to...want to kill me in the arena now? They're the Gamemakers, they can do that. Or maybe they'll kill me now and replace me..."

"Nonsense." Johanna rolled her eyes. "Jill, it would be too much trouble to replace any tribute after the opening ceremonies. Anyone with half a brain knows that. If anything, they'll probably think you have anger problems. They might even like that."

I began to feel hopeful.

"And if they don't like it, it's your own fault."

The feeling faded.

"But," she added, "out of twenty-four tributes, you can't be the only one they dislike. There won't be any vendetta against you. You aren't that important. Stop acting like you're the only one in there. Do you think the Gamemakers liked _me_? I cried through half my session! Well, on purpose, of course, but it still annoyed them."

There was a grudging kindness in her voice that puzzled me. "Why are you being so kind?"

"I'm not being kind," she told me, laughing darkly. "I simply would like to have a victor to bring home to District 7 this year."

"What about Edmund?" I squeaked out.

"That would be all right, too," she said, shrugging. "Either one of you. But _he_ didn't run off after _his_ session, now did he? I don't have to focus on him now, because he's all set. He's not the one in need of reining in at the moment. Now stop crying and get your bottom in that elevator. I'm your mentor, not your babysitter."

Pug opened his mouth.

"Pug," said Johanna, turning to him. "Think about what you're going to say-and then don't say it."

His mouth closed with an almost audible click.

"So, tomorrow afternoon, we find out our scores, right?" I asked Johanna.

"Yes," she answered impatiently. "And then, tomorrow night, your interview."

Then, I added in my head, in the morning after _that_ , the Hunger Games!


	11. Chapter 11: Edmund

I can't sleep. No matter which way I turn, I can't doze off.

I'm not even really tired.

Of course, I know I _should_ get some rest. After all, tomorrow night is my live interview. By then, everyone-including myself-will have known my score, given by the Gamemakers, for hours. All of Panem will be watching me. So, yeah, it's a pretty big deal.

But I just can't doze off. My eyes spring back open whenever I shut them. It's useless. I am not going to sleep tonight. I have to accept that.

Sighing dramatically to myself, I climb out of bed and tie a dressing-gown over my night-clothes.

I'm not sure what I intend to do. Pace the floor? Push random buttons on all the gadgets in my room to see if anything neat happens? (With my luck, I'd probably push the wrong one and, I don't know, blow up the bathroom pipes-which, admittedly, would be kind of awesome...) But before I can come to any decision, I hear footsteps just a short ways outside my room and I creep over, pressing my ear against the wood of the door.

I wait for the moment I'm sure whoever is out there won't hear or see me opening the door and peeking out at them. Then I open the door as fast as possible to avoid a creaking noise and stick my head out just in time to see Johanna Mason's back.

She's going in the direction of the elevator. Probably to meet up with the other mentors.

Past victors don't have to avoid contact with each other, unlike us current tributes. As far as I know, they can even clout one another's running lights out if they want to and no punishment will be forthcoming.

It's rather impossible not to wonder what they get up to when their charges are in bed, staring up at the ceiling, thinking, as it sinks in, "Holy districts of Panem! I'm going to _die_!"

There's no reason I can't follow Johanna and find out. So long, that is, as I'm not caught. I _could_ be, but that knowledge alone isn't enough to stop me.

I'm feeling restless, and, therefore, reckless, as well. Perhaps I'm more tired than I realize and this is a madness brought on by insomnia.

Slowly, sticking to the shadows, I follow close behind Johanna all the way to the elevator. I can't join her in there, of course, since it's made of glass, and there's no place to hide. But I can stand in a dark archway made by marble pillars and wait for the elevator to come back up.

There's a 'last floor selected' button that will tell me exactly where she got off at. Ah, the many mischievous uses for technology!

I still don't like the elevator much, only I suppose I've gradually become used to it. If I don't think about it, about being so high up and seeing everything, I'm usually all right. Riding down to the gymnasium for training three days in a row has taken some of the edge off of plummeting up and down the side of a tower in a see-through box.

In fact, right now, what worries me far more than being high up is that, because I'm standing in clear view, with only glass in front of me, somebody below will see me and blow my cover.

But at this hour either no one is looking up at the elevator, simply not expecting to see anything of real interest, or else the reflections of the bright Capitol lights glaring off of the glass has hidden me.

Whichever it is, I'm glad enough of it.

Johanna has gone down to the 1st floor, and I arrive there just in time to catch a glimpse of her shoulder as she disappears down a dimly-lit hallway. I follow till she stops at a room with the door partly ajar.

Light spills out from inside and increases as Johanna pushes it and storms in.

I pause in the darkest spot in the doorway, just a pair of eyes and ears, listening and watching, taking it all in.

It seems as if all of the mentors are in there. It's a big enough room. Much larger, at least, than it looks from the size of the door. One easily could mistake it for a closet door in the dark. Inside, though, there are poker tables and a piano bar and several folding chairs all scattered about freely, a fair distance from one another. The smell of tobacco, wine, and whiskey is embedded into the stale, dry air. Overly merry music plays at a crazy, caffeine-rush speed.

A loud voice (I can't see who it belongs to) bellows over to one of the groups sitting at the nearest poker table, "So then I said, 'you idiots, it's _celebrate_ , not celibate'!"

Johanna marches over to a table, pulls up a folding chair, and sits with Finnick Odair, the mentor from 4. A few of the mentors from 5 wave to her. A mentor from District 2 flips her the bird.

I can see Peter, sitting by himself at a table, a book open in front of him, one elbow propped up on the table, his hand on his forehead. He looks troubled, to say the least.

Haymitch (of course) is slobbering drunk, only standing up because he's leaning against the side of some extra stools stacked nearby the piano bar. Katniss makes a face at him and then whispers something to Peeta, who shrugs and whispers something back.

The mentors from District 8, all Morphlings (in other words, addicted to the pain-dulling drug, Morphling) with saggy yellow skin, mutter incoherencies at each other and use finger-paints on their tabletop. They're completely lost in their own little world of colours and words that make no sense to anyone outside of their fake universe. But at least they're happy. That's always something. Sure, they're disgusting, but they're obviously very contented in their hideousness.

Rhoop is sitting on a stool, passed out with his head on the counter of the bar, fast asleep. Caspian, sitting next to him, polishing off a glass of wine, tips the bartender, gets up, and walks over to Peter's table.

"Are you all right?"

Peter looks up and shakes his head. "My sister is a tribute, I may very well never be 'all right' again."

"It is a tough situation," Caspian agrees. "Mind if I sit down?"

"Please," says Peter, gesturing at the empty chair next to his own.

Caspian sits. "What are you reading?"

"A medical journal," he replies nonchalantly.

"Oh, yes, you mentioned once before that you were thinking about a career in medicine."

"It's not going to happen," says Peter. "I've got a household to run as it is, and it's not as if I really need the extra money."

"Peter, please don't be angry at me for saying this, but..." Caspian smiles shakily. "I mean, have you considered what will happen if Lucy...I mean one sister is not _much_ of a household, and if she doesn't...doesn't win..."

"She stands as much chance of winning as anyone else. I daresay, a little more than some."

"And if she wins, what about Eustace?"

I am unaware that Eustace means anything to Peter until I see the pained look on his face. "Don't let's talk about it."

"They cannot both win."

"I know that," says Peter miserably.

"You need to..."

"I need to _what_?" Peter lashes out, glaring at Caspian. "Accept it? Like _you_ have? Have you really accepted that Lilliandil might not come out that arena alive? You're friends back home in 6, aren't you? And you can tell me you've been absolutely _fine_ since the reaping?"

Caspian's face recoils and goes pale.

"I'm sorry," murmurs Peter, burying his face in his hands. "I don't know how much more of this I can take."

"So, what's Pevensie reading?" A boorish mentor in his late twenties or early thirties from District 5 comes up to them and snatches the book off the table. "Whoa, Pevensie! Exactly what kind of doctor are you thinking of becoming?"

"That's a _foot_ , you moron." Peter turns the book so that it's right-side up (the mentor was holding it the wrong way). "The chapter's on podiatry."

"Oh, bummer. I thought it was a lady part." The District 5 mentor sounds disappointed.

"I know perfectly well what you thought it was, dirty mind." He yanks the book back.

"Well if I had an ankle that hairy, I'd shave it. Just saying."

"That is fascinating," says Caspian, as if he thinks it's anything _but_.

"So how's the soap star?" The District 5 mentor ignores him and continues to grin at Peter, beaming like an idiot.

"Same as the last time you asked; my conversations with her are _still_ none of your business." Peter's face reddens with anger-or embarrassment. I'm not sure which. Perhaps both.

"I heard she was thinking of sponsoring Cato from District 2. Tough break, mate." He does this really annoying 'har, har, har' laugh. "You must feel bloody awful."

"Oh, shut up." He looks more irritated than angry or embarrassed now.

"I say! Didn't she sponsor _you_ the year you won?"

"I _said_ shut up."

"All I'm saying is she's got a great track record for picking winners."

"I said shut up, didn't I? Enough is enough. Go bother somebody else, why don't you?"

Anyone with sense would clear out or flare up, but the District 5 mentor has nothing of the sort. So he lingers. For a short while (much _too_ short) he is silent. But of course that doesn't last. How can it? He evidently has a big mouth on its own merits, and under the influence of one too many alcoholic beverages it seems pretty unstoppable.

"So, Pevensie, if your sister lives-" I can see Peter's face tightening, getting particularly hard at the words 'if' and 'lives' "-does that mean she's out there?"

I'm not entirely sure what he means, but I listen, confused.

Caspian loudly whispers, "Don't kill him, Peter. Not here. The paperwork would be unbearable."

He's joking, I _think_...

All the same, Peter certainly looks like he _wants_ to kill him. "Excuse me?"

"Well," the mentor babbles on, "like you and Finnick, and Johanna before she found out her parents were dead... And what about...?"

"You're too drunk to know what you are saying," Caspian cuts him off, standing up. "There are some things we never speak of here. Or any place else, for that matter. For our own good as well as the need for peace and quiet."

Johanna, whose head has turned at the sound of her name, adds, "Hear, hear," holding up a half-empty glass of whiskey.

"I'm getting too old for this," sighs a somewhat aged man with a grayish-brown beard I have not noticed till now because he was too far from my spot in the doorway.

I have to crane my neck a bit, twisting it dangerously close to the inside of the door-frame in order to see him properly.

He's the mentor for District 9. I heard his name during training; it's Coriakin.

His tributes are incredibly annoying, as they, for no apparent reason, feel the need to verbally agree with every single statement anybody makes, even if it's something rather impossible not to agree with. A person could say, "Water; powerful wet stuff, isn't it?" and they'd act like someone just made a great speech worthy of the history books.

No wonder their mentor looks so tired. Even less wonder that he's the only mentor that volunteered to work with them this year.

Letty, a woman mentor for District 10, nods and adds, "On the positive side, Mister Coriakin, every year the music here gets better."

"Letitia, yesterday you told me that your hearing gets worse every year."

"Exactly," she says, arching a brow.

"Ah." He nods, understanding.

A popping sound, like someone getting struck in the jaw, cracks through the room.

I whip my head back to the direction it was in before just in time to see Peter standing above the floored mentor from District 5, panting. It's clear that he's just punched him in the face.

"What happened?" mutters Haymitch. He is so heavily intoxicated he missed it.

"He bumped Peter as he was standing up," Peeta tells him quickly. "Then, after he bumped him, he tried to make him apologize. So Peter hit him."

"I'm surprised he didn't hit him sooner," hisses Katniss.

"Hey, you!" Haymitch, nearly falling over to the other side of the counter, twists his body over the side of the bar and barks at the piano player, "How about some good fighting music, eh?"

"Haymitch!" protests Peeta.

"What?" he slurs. "If we've got to watch a fist fight, might as well make it count."

"It was one hit," Peter says, "I'm not going to fight him."

"Coward," mutters the mentor with a fresh bruise forming on his jaw.

Peter, already too worked up, glowers at him. "On second thought, dashed if I'm not!"

This must have happened before. Either that or the piano player is just a bloody under-rated musical genius, because every single note he plays after those words die off of Peter's lips somehow matches up with the fight between the mentors perfectly.

I feel the oddest urge to jump in there and help Peter. But of course I restrain myself. He does fine by himself anyway.

Johanna even gets involved, same as I _want_ to but won't. I would think she would be on the side of the mentor from District 5, since she doesn't seem to like Peter much and she knows all the mentors from 5 better, them being so geographically close to home, but this particular mentor must not be one of her better chums (or else she's simply mad at him for bringing up her dead parents earlier), because she takes Peter's part rather violently.

Finnick, Caspian, and Peeta get in there, too, and, in turn, the handful (mostly from 5, but a couple from District 3 as well) who were on the other chap's side quickly surrender.

The background piano music slows considerably.

Suddenly Peeta starts laughing. His laughter is contagious. Within seconds, half the room is laughing right along with him. The Morphlings from 8 are in utter hysterics, enjoying every minute of the 'fun party'.

Another round of drinks is ordered.

But Caspian doesn't join in this round. I notice that he waits until the moment everybody is focused on something else (Peter is back with his medical book and a glass of port, Haymitch is flat on his face trying to find a lost shaker of salt, and the District 5 mentor who has just had his tush whipped is busy singing along off-key with whatever song is currently coming out of the piano) and slips out the door.

I curse under my breath and jump out of the way, pressing myself against the shadowy side of the wall, hoping he won't notice me.

He doesn't. He walks right by me and everything and doesn't even look my way. His mind must be elsewhere.

As soon as I'm sure it's safe, I exhale heavily, an open sigh of relief at not being caught.

I slide my back against the wall, scooting towards the doorway again, curious to see what's happening. If anything is. The fisticuffs might have been all the show the mentors are going to be good for tonight.

 _Show_. Suddenly a little sick to my stomach, I realize how much my last thought sounded like something a Capitol-bred citizen might say. Have I really come to the point where I take pleasure from watching other people fight? And here I've been secretly (and only because it _can't_ be openly) hating the Capitol. Is it possible, deep down, I'm actually just like them? The thought is sobering.

There is something very wrong here. I should be trying to figure out what it is, not amusing myself. No, better than that, I should be in bed like a good little tribute. Even if I do figure out what the blasted mentors are talking about, why Peter is so depressed, why Lucy hasn't got all the sponsors she needs, what good would it do? For _anyone_? My knowing doesn't benefit me, or Lucy, or any of the other tributes. The only thing that benefits is my satisfied curiosity.

Which, really, is kind of pathetic if you think about it.

I look into the room again anyway.

The Morphlings have left their table and are doing the chicken dance in a semi-circle around the piano bar.

Random fact: the chicken dance originally couldn't have had _less_ to do with chickens. It came from a place called Telmar (it's still called Telmar, in fact, though it's now uninhabited) that used to be reasonably close to Panem back when it was Narnia. According to the history books, the dance had actual words back then and it was about little flying birds, not chickens. Unfortunately, when they learned the dance, the Narnians hadn't the foggiest idea what they were doing and, not understanding the words, must have thought they were doing steps to a song about a crazy chicken.

Now, in modern-day Panem, it's just a way of making one's self look stupid after drinking too much or getting high.

Perfect cases in point: the nutcases from District 8 flapping their bent elbows and crinkling their faces. They look quite constipated. Someone should get the poor saps some laxatives.

Finnick has moved to another table by himself and appears to be writing a letter, a freshly poured drink in a tumbler glass at his elbow.

A mentor from 2 walks by and, glancing over his shoulder in passing, asks, "Who's Annie?"

Crumbling up the letter in his hand and flicking it into a dustbin, Finnick mumbles, "Nobody." He brings his glass to his lips and swallows its contents down in one steady gulp.

A sharp squeak that runs up my spine like nails on a chalkboard strikes me as hard as if I've been hit on the back. I jump away from the door as quickly and quietly as I can, back into my shadows, and turn my head to see who-or what-is coming.

It's a red-haired janitor, probably an Avox, pushing a squeaky garbage-bin on wheels.

The thing is, I'm worried that if I'm mistaken and it's not a mute traitor working for the Capitol but only a regular employee, and he sees me, I'll be reported for sure.

I mean, A District 7 tribute on the first floor? What excuse could I possibly invent for that? That I sleep-walked into the elevator?

No, it's best to just hide.

Problem is, there's a little blinking battery-operated light on the side of the wheeled garbage-bin and if the janitor turns around even half-way, it'll be on me. He'd have to be blind not to see me standing here.

So I make a run for it. Down the hallway. And I'm doing great, just great, until my slippers slide on the probably just-waxed floor and I take a digger, landing on my side.

"Ouch," I mutter, pulling myself up.

The good news is I haven't been caught. Nobody around in this hallway. I've left the janitor and the other mentors far behind. Now all I have to do is get back to the elevator, go up, hopefully as unseen as I was coming down, and no one's the wiser. I'm back in bed and nobody can prove I ever left it.

But when I reach the elevator at last, I encounter a problem.

The problem, in the broadest sense, can be summed up in one word, 'romance'. A more exact translation, best describing the situation, would be: 'even if I make a dash for the elevator, I can't get it into it undetected because two morons are leaning against the wall to the left of it, making out, and (if either of them bothers to crack open an eyelid) they'll see me'. _Great_.

Just when I'm thinking that perhaps they're preoccupied enough not to open their eyes and too busy exchanging spit to notice the _ding_ of the elevator coming to the floor, and that maybe I should risk it after all, the girl moans and pushes the young man away. "Someone comes! I thought I heard a noise."

"I didn't hear anything," he replies.

My eyes widen. The girl, her bright yellow hair almost glowing in the dark, is unmistakably Lilliandil from District 6, and the young man is Caspian.

So _that's_ why he left the other mentors. I roll my eyes. A tribute and a mentor. It's happened before, but not often. It's widely frowned upon, in the Capitol and the districts alike, on account of the fact that said mentor will obviously show favoritism to the tribute they're romantically involved with. Which is considered an unfair advantage.

But they don't have to worry about me. I feel a little sorry for Ash, how he's likely to get slighted, but it's none of my business. And, besides, if I wanted to tell on them, they could-understandably-ask me what I was doing up after curfew wandering the 1st floor.

And, yeah, sure, maybe curfew isn't always _very_ strictly enforced, depending on the circumstances (for instance, if I was up on the roof now, I don't think anyone would care-since, as I now know, it's not like I can jump off and kill myself). But, somehow, I strongly doubt mumbling, "Erm, looking for the bathroom?" and then playing dumb when reminded that I have one in my room, will be an acceptable alibi.

"I could have sworn I heard footsteps," Lilliandil whispers.

She has remarkably good ears.

"I didn't hear anything," Caspian repeats, but looks round warily all the same. (I have to duck back behind the corner of the hallway so he doesn't see me and wait until he's looking at Lilliandil again before peeking back out.) "But you should not be here."

"I had to see you," she says softly.

"I know. I did not say I wasn't glad you came." He squeezes her hand. "I thought..." It's hard to tell in the dark, but he seems to be blushing. "All right, I _hoped_ , you would come."

"You don't suppose they have cameras here?" Lilliandil worries aloud.

Oh, I hope not, I think, looking above my head at the dark ceiling, feeling a little paranoid.

"I do not think so," Caspian tells her. "Not right here. They don't have a lot of potential burglars trying to steal the glass elevator."

She giggles lightly.

"I have something for you." He lets go of her hand and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a ring.

Lilliandil gasps. "Oh!"

"Something to remind you of my love while you're in there. I know you already have your brother's necklace as a token to wear in the arena," Caspian says, "but I thought, perhaps, it is only a chain..."

"Oh, yes!" she exclaims, looking at Caspian more than at the ring in his hand even though the big dark jewel on it looks, even from where I'm standing, more like a continent than a rock. "I'll wear it on Rilian's chain, as a pendant."

"Promise you will come back to me," Caspian pleads, slipping an arm around her waist.

"I shall try," she says, her voice cracking a little.

My foot, which I am standing on wrong, begins to fall asleep. I try to revive it by stomping it on the floor. A false move bangs the side of my toes against the corner of the wall.

I bite back a curse, but a small yelp of pain escapes me.

"I _did_ hear something that time!" cries Lilliandil. "I'm sure of it."

"But who-" Caspian starts, about to turn his head in my direction.

Nothing else for it, I turn right around and start running as best as I can, limping on my aching toes, as far down the opposite hallway as I can get.

Because I think I hear Caspian coming, I even have to run right passed the still ajar door to the piano bar room with the mentors.

And while I avoid being seen by the janitor, who I come across again, I almost bang into a woman called Mrs. Macready who is to District 1 what Effie Trinket is to 12, or Pug is to us in 7.

She's storming about in her night-clothes, muttering something about why the loud mentors can't take their rave to another floor and let decent people get a good night's sleep once in a while.

Panting, I race for a door leading into what looks like a storage room of some kind, throwing and shutting myself inside before she sees me.

Behind me, someone gasps, and I turn just in time to see a white-clad figure duck under some mops, come up on the opposite side, and leap up into an old wardrobe at the very back of the room.

She leaves the door partly open, probably scared of shutting herself inside.

I know exactly who she is; Lucy. I recognized her immediately, though I'm not sure if she recognized me as the boy from District 7 or not.

She might not have even known, in this rum lighting, that was I was a tribute. She could have thought I was anybody from a mentor to an Avox.

Best I can figure, when she first heard footsteps outside the door, she thought it was the janitor or the Macready. She was clearly just waiting till they passed. Must have startled her out of her wits when the doorknob turned and I came barreling in. So she, barely waiting to see who had just arrived, went for the wardrobe. Completely understandable.

I get it in my head, however, that I can't just leave her in there. Only, paradoxically, I barely know her. And, deserter or no, she's still technically a Career. Or Career-stock, at least. What am I supposed to say to her? Why _can't_ I just leave? The Macready must be gone by now. The coast must be clear.

Regardless, I still find myself walking towards the wardrobe. I open the door and climb right on in, a little surprised when I don't bang into her right away. The wardrobe is bigger than I thought.

I wait for her to say something, or to come nearer, but she doesn't. She thinks I'm someone come to catch her out of bed after curfew, so she's keeping very quiet at the back.

"Lucy?" Calling out her name in a semi-familiar way feels strange, but I can't think of how else to announce my presence.

How _does_ one, randomly, in the dead of night, while hiding out in a big piece of furniture, speak to a girl who they're going to be in an arena fighting in a day or so, give or take?

Funnily enough, this is the first time I've been in a situation where an answer to that long, bizarre question is required.

She doesn't answer. For some reason that annoys me and, mostly out of spite, I grab hold of the thin brass bar on the inside of the wardrobe door and call out, "Hope you're not afraid of the dark." Then I pull the door towards me, closing it, engulfing us in darkness.

I briefly find myself thinking that Susan would be appalled, not only that I'm deliberately scaring a girl younger than myself, but also that I had the nerve to ignore her childhood advice to me that it's very silly to shut one's self up in a wardrobe.

I hastily push the thought out of my head; I don't want to be homesick right now. I just don't.

And while Lucy still doesn't speak up, a faint-very throaty-involuntary squeak of protest comes out of her, indicating where she's at.

I take a few steps in the direction her little noise came from, pushing a number of fur coats out of my way.

Finally, as I fully expect to, I find her crouched at the very, very back. Because it's so dark, I almost step on her, and I half-regret closing the door.

"Who are you?" she says finally, her voice shaky. "What do you want?"

"I-I'm Edmund," I tell her. "Edmund Martin. District 7."

"You're the boy who fell out of the chariot at the opening ceremonies."

Oh, she _would_ remember _that_ of all things! "And you're the girl who carried a puppy."

"He was such a pretty little dog," she says, her voice a little cheerier. "I wish they'd let me keep him."

"What are you doing up so late?" I ask, changing the subject, not knowing how to reply to that.

Almost anyone else would snap back, "What are _you_ doing up?" and probably mention something about me being on the wrong floor. Lucy, however, doesn't. She answers, "I can't sleep."

"Let me guess," I offer. "You're worried about the scores being revealed tomorrow. Or the interviews?"

I think she nods, but it's too dark to be sure.

"Me too," I admit. "It's like we're either all going mad or the Capitol is playing with our minds." I didn't mean to say that last part out loud, but talking to her is turning out to be easier than I expected and it sort of, well, _slipped_. Rolled right off the tip of my tongue before I had time to think it through or remember that Lucy is my competition, _not_ my friend.

Before she can reply, I'm awkwardly fumbling around, my hand pressed against the wood, looking for the door.

Suddenly there's a filmy light up ahead. "Thank goodness. The door must have swung open of its own accord," I blurt out, relieved.

"Was it Mrs. Macready out there?" Lucy asks, stepping out of the wardrobe right behind me. She gestures at the door with her chin.

"Yeah," I admit.

"Is she gone, do you think?"

"I'll check." I open the door and stick my head out. "All clear," I inform her, pulling my head back into the room. "I had better get back to my own floor."

"I'll walk with you to the elevator," she offers.

I would much rather she didn't, but somehow I can't quite manage to force myself to tell her to get lost. So I let her stick by me, walking along at my side. I get the feeling that if we weren't creeping along so quietly, not wanting to be seen, she would be carrying on a conversation with me. Me, who she barely knows, and who purposefully shut her in a wardrobe a couple of minutes ago.

I wish she was more stuck up; I really, really do.

Glancing at her out of the corner of one eye, I notice she's cold. She only has a long night-shift on, no dressing-gown. And she rubs her goose-pimply arms constantly, though she never complains or says a word about it.

I'm positive she has a dressing-gown in her room, considering she's a Career and they wouldn't forget anything even remotely important for a tribute from one of _those_ districts. She's only forgotten it, probably. And yet, I don't like to think of her walking down these hallways shivering all the way back to her room.

Sighing, I stop walking and untie and take off my own dressing-gown, draping it over her shoulders. "Better?"

Lucy stops and blinks, surprised. "Yes, thank you."

I wave it off. "It's nothing. Don't mention it." Inwardly, I'm thinking that this can't possibly make up for the fact that if we meet face-to-face in the arena, we'll probably have to fight.

Or that I'm nearly hoping (mean as it sounds) that she gets killed off quickly, maybe even on the first day. And by someone other than _me_. Better still, by an accident contrived by the Gamemakers, so that none of the tributes has to be her killer.

A live Career, rogue or otherwise, is a dangerous thing in the arena. A live friend who is not an ally is dangerous in there, too.

I don't want to be anywhere near her ever again after this. For her protection, and also for mine.


	12. Chapter 12: Jill

It was a moment filled with dread and, at the same time, excitement. For some more than others. But none of us, tribute or mentor, could deny the importance of what was going to happen.

Oh, some _tried_ of course; there were a few muttered voices, loudly whispering, "Who pays attention to scores unless they're ridiculously high anyhow? What _does_ it matter, _really_?" Only, even the speakers themselves didn't sound very convinced.

All twenty-four of us and our mentors, as well as whomever was in charge of pulling names out of the reaping bowl in our given districts (which, unfortunately, meant that Edmund and I-as well as everybody else-had to endure Pug's company yet again), were ushered into a fancy sitting room full of soft reclining sofas, smooth velvet couches, and puffy silk cushions to see our scores announced on a big screen that took up an entire wall.

A few of the tributes tussled over where they would sit, but the mentors quickly put an end to that, sharply reminding them that pre-Hunger Games shoving and hair-pulling was illegal.

"Cecilia pushed me!" claimed the fourteen year old boy tribute from District 8, pointing accusingly at the girl tribute he'd come to the Capitol with.

But he wasn't actually hurt, and their mentors didn't seem particularly alert, so she wasn't called out on it.

The Careers, except for Lucy and Gael, all sat together. Clove sat on a sofa sandwiched between Cato and Eustace; Peridan sat on the arm-rest to Eustace's left. Gael was sitting on a pile of cushions on the floor with Primrose from District 12. Lucy sat on one of the longer couches with her mentor, the younger of the two mentors from District 6, the dark-skinned boy and girl from 11, and _their_ mentor: a dark, stern-eyed girl roughly my own size and only a few years my senior.

As for me, I was sitting on a row of cushions with Edmund on my left and Johanna on my right. It suddenly bothered me that I hadn't any allies. Why were the Careers the only ones who could make alliances? It wasn't the least bit fair.

All the same, looking round, it was hard to pick out anyone I would _want_ as an ally.

The boy and girl from 10-sitting nearby myself, Edmund, and Johanna-were very reclusive, and the boy had this creepy way of rubbing his knuckles together which I didn't like. Moreover, he was thin and bony, and she was rather slender-formed, too. They looked fragile, but not piteously so. No one would want to be on _their_ side.

There was something about the girl tribute from 5 that was appealing, and she seemed to be built like a fast runner, not unlike myself, but she seemed so slyly introverted, like she intended to win the games on all on her own, without alliances of any sort.

The lights in the room dimmed until they were nothing but soft yellow hazes running the length of the baseboard trimming on the walls. The screen in front of us lit up and the Hunger Games' anthem began to play.

Everyone is seeing this, I thought, everyone here in this room, all the Capitol citizens, and everybody in the districts. And, of course, I knew potential sponsors were seeing it too; eagerly watching for likely winners to invest in and place bets on.

Eustace, being the boy from District 1, was first.

A rather unfortunate-looking, slightly grainy, photograph where he looked like he was either about to sneeze or else had just finished sneezing filled half the screen. Under this picture, there was his name and district number, and under _that_ , the flashing score was fading in.

It was a four.

" _Ouch_ ," one of the mentors from 2 mutter-laughed.

I looked over at Eustace. He was pouting sullenly and his arms were folded across his chest.

Shrugging, I turned my attention back to the screen.

Eustace's photograph was replaced by one of Lucy. Her barely-there smile appeared forced, but aside from that she looked a great deal nicer than the boy from her district had.

Under her name, her score flickered, then flashed rapidly like a bolt of lightning. She'd gotten a ten.

Peter sounded like he was choking on his own spit for a moment. He scooted so close to the edge of his seat that I thought he was going to fall off. His face, even in the dark, was overtly beaming.

"Lu, you're a hero! How ever did you manage _that_?" He put his arm around her shoulders. "You did it, sweetheart. I'm so proud of you."

"The sponsors," she whispered anxiously. "They'll come back now, won't they?"

"Lucy," he laugh-spluttered, "even if they _don't_ -and they would have to be complete and utter _imbeciles_ not to-there will be so many new ones we'll have to beat them off with a stick! It's a ten, Lu, a _ten_!"

I knew the Careers she'd broken off from wouldn't be so happy about that ten. Eustace avoided Lucy's gaze entirely, but Cato glared at her hatefully with squinted shifty eyes in the rum lighting.

Cato's score was a ten as well. Clove's was a nine. Nine was a simply brilliant score, one worth being thrilled over, but I got the feeling she would have been much more pleased with it if it hadn't been a full mark lower than Lucy's.

The boy from District 3, Heath (I didn't notice his last name before they moved on to the next score), received a seven. The girl from that district, Jadis Charn, had an eleven.

Several tributes gulped heavily. The Careers whispered amongst themselves in a group huddle. A few mentors from other districts groaned.

Peridan's score was nine. Gael's, surprisingly, was a solid six. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Primrose squeezing her ally's hand and whispering, "Congratulations!"

Both tributes from 5 ironically got fives. The boy from 6 got a three, much to his dismay; the girl from 6 had a four, like Eustace.

Edmund was coming up next, then me.

I bit my lip and fiddled with my thumb-ring, not sure I could handle the suspense a moment longer.

Edmund's score was a shockingly high eleven, same as Jadis Charn's.

Johanna cocked her head at him and lifted her hands, pantomiming an applause.

I paled, knowing I couldn't possibly do as well. She'd told me herself she didn't care which one of us won, which one she brought back home. And I didn't want to die in that arena; I wanted to see my parents again.

Then it was me. My picture was on screen. And under my name it said, though I scarcely dared believe I wasn't dreaming it, _eight_.

"Well done, Gel," said Pug.

"They must have liked what you did," was Johanna's only comment.

It was real. It was all real. I had gotten an eight. That was only one point lower than _Clove_! They were nearly putting me on Career level!

Was it some kind of cruel trick? Did they think it amusing to give the girl who shattered the lights with her arrows a score higher than she'd earned?

But, then, it _couldn't_ be fake... I couldn't see how such a trick would benefit them in the least. Besides, neither Edmund nor Jadis were Career tributes and they had gotten the highest scores out of all of us.

I was so dazed that I completely missed District 8's scores. They must have been mediocre at best, though, because nobody commented on them afterward that I heard.

The next thing I was aware of, the boy tribute from District 9, a thirteen year old called Monopod, had his face on screen. His score was a low 3. The girl, Clipsie Duffer, same age as the boy, had a 2. I felt sorry for their mentor; he seemed like a nice old man, and I knew it must have been practically impossible to get sponsors for tributes like his.

Andrew Ketterley from District 10 got a five; the girl tribute, Lefay, a six.

Coming more fully out of my shock, I found that I was deeply interested in District 11's turn out, curious to see if the boy at least would receive a high score. The girl was doubtful (I couldn't see her as anything other than the sad, misty-eyed lady who'd had a pet monkey with her at her district's reaping), but the boy was strong, seventeen or eighteen, perhaps, and Lucy might-just _might_ -have done well in forming an alliance with him after all.

Emeth (that was the District 11 boy's name) ended up with the same score as Cato and Lucy. I thought I heard Peter breathing out a sigh of relief. Lasaraleen (the girl) was not so lucky; her score (a one) was the lowest out of anyone's.

And, for some reason, she seemed to misunderstand that this was a bad thing. Clapping her hands together, she bounced up and down on her cushion, exclaiming, "Yes! I'm number one!" She pointed excitedly at the screen. "I'm number one!"

"No, Las," whispered her mentor as gently as possible, "a one is a very _bad_ score."

Her brow furrowed for a moment, comprehension dawning. Then, she swallowed hard and said, "Oh." Her head drooped and she stopped bouncing. "Sorry, Aravis."

Her mentor patted her hand. "It's all right," she said softly, a catch in her throat. "You did your best, Las. You've done nothing wrong."

Lasaraleen started sniffling loudly. I couldn't help wishing I could do something to cheer her up. She seemed a little stupid, but it wasn't her fault. Not all girls knew how to fight or run fast or handle a bow. She didn't _ask_ to be here; none of us did. I even almost wished I could give her part of my score, since it was so high. But of course that was impossible, and even if it hadn't been, I sometimes wonder if I would have been too selfish-too protective of the good score I'd secured for myself-to actually have gone through with it.

Glimfeather, the District 12 boy, received a five. Poor little Primrose Everdeen, a four, just like Eustace from 1 and Lilliandil from 6. But, somehow, compared to Lasaraleen's one, their score didn't look _quite_ so fatally low anymore.

Still, receiving a four was far worse for Lilliandil and Primrose than it was for Eustace. Eustace would have the Careers' protection for as long as their alliance lasted. Primrose had only Gael to help her in the arena, and Lilliandil seemed to be on her own entirely.

The dimming lights began brightening up again and the screen went black. A few tributes and mentors were murmuring about their scores amongst themselves. I sat quietly, stroking the heads of the silver horses on my thumb-ring.

Suddenly the door flew open and a stocky, medium-sized woman of about thirty-eight with her copper-coloured hair slicked back into a high ponytail barged in, a stack of papers in her arms, which her cream-coloured blouse left bare. On her right, very muscular, upper-arm, there was a rhinestone-studded tattoo of a unicorn.

"What's _she_ doing here?" demanded Eustace, wrinkling his nose.

"Hallo!" squeaked Lucy excitedly, waving at the woman as if they were old friends.

Peter sat up and fast-walked over to her. "Goodness! Finally, a _real_ person to talk to in this place."

"It's good to see you, too, Mr. Pevensie," said the woman. "You look thin."

"I'm fine," he told her, laughing and rolling his eyes.

"More meat and potatoes, less port."

"How did you get passed security, anyway?" he asked, changing the subject.

"That's for me to know," she said, "and you not to find out." She lowered her voice slightly. "For, you know, legal reasons. If the anybody asks, you don't even I'm not home in District 1, cheerfully filing paperwork, you understand?"

"You didn't actually _kill_ anyone, did you?" Peter sounded like he was only half-joking.

She shrugged. "Not yet."

"Good enough for me," he said, waving the mentor from 6 over. "Caspian, this is my secretary, Jewel."

"Secretary and self-appointed bodyguard from what I heard," laughed Caspian, shaking her hand. "Did you really take a bullet for him two weeks after he won the Hunger Games?"

Jewel snorted. "Of course not, don't be absurd." Her lips curled into a smirk. "It was an _arrow_." Behind her, I noticed Peter was mouthing the words, evidently having known exactly what she was going to say.

Lucy giggled, and Jewel craned her neck to give Peter a fake-scowl. "Mr. Pevensie! Keep that up and I'm not going to tell you the wonderful news I came all this way bearing."

"Me first," Peter said. "Lucy got a ten!"

"I know," she said, grinning over at Lucy. "Honey, I never doubted you."

Lucy shrugged modestly, her cheeks reddening.

"How did you know?" Peter asked, motioning at the black screen on the wall. "They _just_ announced it."

"Mr. Pevensie, they _do_ have television screens hanging in just about every lobby in this building." Jewel sighed. "Honestly! Now about why I'm here. First off, we don't have to deal with that annoying woman who calls every ten minutes and yells the ears off of everyone in the office. You know, the one Lord Snow introduced you a year or so ago?"

"Did she get laryngitis?" Peter's face lit up hopefully.

"No, even _better_. I think perhaps this isn't the appropriate place to go over the details, but let's just say she won't be bothering _you_ anymore." She snapped her fingers over at Finnick to get his attention. "Mr. Odair? I'm so sorry. You really do have my deepest sympathies. Best of luck to you."

"I hate my life," moaned Finnick, pressing his hand against his forehead.

Lucy stood up and cocked her head at Peter in a puzzled manner. "What's she talking about?"

"Nothing, Lu." I could see he was turning rather red in the face and having a difficult time looking her in the eyes, though.

"And, now that Lucy here has a ten," Jewel said, breaking the awkward silence expertly, as if she'd been doing it for years (probably, she had been), "we'll have even _more_ sponsors now, but I was actually coming all this way to tell you, before the scores were announced, that your worries are over. There's this lovely group of rich Capitol old ladies who have taken to playing poker with Hunger Games bets. They apparently have marvelous taste, and thus want to sponsor Lucy. So of course I accepted their offer and arranged the whole thing in your stead."

"You could have called," Peter reminded her.

"What? And miss the look on your face when you found out?" She shoved the stack of paper at him. "I think _not_ , Mr. Pevensie!"

"Jewel, you are a keeper, as well as an absolute brick, don't let anybody tell you any different." Peter beamed at her.

"So you think I'm the best secretary you've ever had?"

"Definitely," he assured her.

Seemingly out of nowhere, she pulled out a big glass jar. "Tell it to the tip jar, Boss."

"Where was she keeping that?" whispered Caspian to no one in particular.

"I was thinking more, say, a regular pay raise and seven weeks vacation?" Peter offered.

"Oh, all right, then. That's perfectly acceptable." She tossed the jar aside, accidentally hitting a mentor from District 5 in the head. "Oh, walk it off!" she shouted at him. "If you won the Hunger Games, an occasional bump on the head won't kill you, trust me."

"So, if you're here, Jewel," said Peter, his eyebrows lowering themselves, "who's taking care of things at home?"

"Oh, rats!" She snapped her fingers fake-dramatically. "I knew I forgot _something_."

"Let me guess. You've got it covered?"

"Well, I had to put my husband in charge of the phones and my five year old on stapler duty, but, don't worry, I don't think _too_ much of the office will be burned down when I get back," she teased.

"You've got it covered," Peter said; as a statement this time, rather than a question.

"Of course I do. And, Lucy, honey? Remember, when you win, I'm taking you for ice cream."

If Lucy wins, I thought, she can _buy_ all the ice cream she wants. She'll be as rich as Johanna.

Eustace, however, frowned indignantly. "You never offered to take _me_ for ice cream-or that low fat frozen yogurt which I eat _instead_ of ice cream."

Jewel shrugged. "Yeah, I just don't like you as much." She patted him on the shoulder. "But good luck anyway." Under her breath she added, so soft I could just barely hear what she was saying, her tone a little dark for someone who supposedly disliked the tribute she was referring to, "Are you going to need it!"

A voice came over the loud-speakers from a nearby lobby. " _If the woman who left a giant machete by the front entrance could please come claim her property before being forcibly escorted off the Training Center premises, that would be greatly appreciated_."

Jewel straightened up. "Ooh, that's me. I've got to go!" She blew air-kisses at Lucy "My money's on you, kiddo!" and dashed out of the room.

"She seems... _nice_..." Caspian managed, his expression sightly disturbed. He was probably wondering what that not entirely stable woman was doing with a machete.

Peter winced. "It's times like these I need to remember I hired her because she always keeps the paperwork in perfect order, she doesn't take nonsense from clients, she positively _adores_ Lucy, and she's also the only woman I know of who can use nail polish as an explosive."

After our scores were announced, but still a few hours before we had to meet up with our stylists to dress for our televised interviews, it was announced that all tributes had to take the tokens they planned to carry or wear into the arena for inspection.

A large plastic bin was set on a conveyor belt and we were told to put our tokens in there so it could run through a machine before the official hidden weapons experts came in and gave each item a final examination before it was declared legal.

I hesitated to take off my ring, especially since it was smaller than some of the other tokens and I was afraid of it being lost in the bin. But rules were rules, so, gritting my teeth, I slipped the ring off and dropped it in.

I wasn't the only one with a ring for district token. Lilliandil had a beautiful gold ring with a large princess-cut gem on it (either a blue diamond or a sapphire) dangling from a delicate silver chain.

Eustace had an arm-ring (or bracelet) that I thought would be much too big on him (he would have to wear it pushed very high on his upper arm for it to fit at all). It was gold with a small hammer pendant over which hung a little diamond like a star. Like myself, he seemed a bit hesitant to part with his token, but had to.

Edmund, on the other hand, had no problem parting with _his_. He dropped his gold pin in among the other tokens (some expensive and glittering, others, mainly those from the poorer districts, plain and lackluster) as if it were a disease or a piece of hot coal.

Only one token was taken out of the game (Edmund's pin _nearly_ was, because some of the other tributes started grumbling about how he could take it off and use the sharp point to stab them, but the Gamemakers and weaponry experts let it slide); the staff or 'walking stick' belonging to the boy tribute from District 5 had a secret catch in it that made it turn into an axe. He claimed he hadn't known about it, but his token was taken away regardless. Everything else passed inspection.

And the next thing I knew, I was waiting with Venia and Octavia-my silver ring securely back on my thumb where it belonged-for Cinna to bring in my interview dress.

They had me close my eyes while they slipped the soft fabric over my head.

I felt a light weight being placed over my shoulders and realized that probably meant I would be wearing a cape or a shawl. Remembering Cinna's past experiences with designing unforgettable capes, I knew, even with my eyes shut tight, it was something utterly amazing.

"All right, you can open your eyes now," said Cinna.

I opened them and stared agape into the nearest looking-glass.

The dress itself was billowy, silken, and a leafy mint-green colour. Everything about it felt loose and relaxed. The sleeves were long, but very wide and not at all restrictive. The waistline was marked, not by a place where the dress tightened or loosened, but, rather, by a belt made of braided green ribbons loosely sewn into the garment to keep everything in place. As for the cape, it was a masterpiece more than worthy of Cinna's talent. It was rust-red with berry-red embroidery that shimmered lightly, and all around the hem was thick, white ermine fur.

"Now the shoes." Octavia lifted one of my feet up and slid on a gray wool sock. Then she put a leather ankle-boot, the same kind a person might wear in District 7 while walking through the woods, except for the fact that it wasn't worn-out or splattered with dried mud the way most boots back home would be, over the sock.

It seemed like something that would clash with the dress, but it didn't. Cinna had chosen them, and the colours of the dress and cape, for a reason. They were soft, gentle, beautiful, what the Capitol expected to see a young girl tribute wearing, but, combined as they were, they also had a strong whisper of pine forests, of where I'd come from.

Armed with an eight and that splendid dress, it would be very hard for a potential sponsor to over-look me or forget which district I belonged to at the last minute.

I felt afraid and grateful at the same time. I still didn't want to do it; I didn't want to fight other kids on television. And yet I knew Octavia and Venia honestly wanted to help me. And so did Cinna. Especially Cinna. His whole-hearted assistance meant more than theirs because it wasn't gained by any acting on my part; he liked me for me. He must have, I knew, because I never pretended in front of him. I'd always acted like myself when he was around.

"Ready to make that impression?" Cinna asked gently, putting an arm around my shoulders.

"Thank you," I croaked out softly, swallowing at the lump in my throat and blinking back my tears, watching my reflection do the same.


	13. Chapter 13: Edmund

"Welcome all, to 'Live With Caesar Flickerman'... Now, here's your host, the man himself, here to get the inside scoop on this year's courageous young Hunger Games tributes, _Caesar Flickerman_!"

Caesar Flickerman walks onto center stage, coming from the opposite end of where we-the tributes-are standing, waiting to be called up and interviewed.

He waves to the live studio audience and says something witty that makes them chuckle collectively.

Johanna, on my right, whispers in my ear, "Try not to be completely morbid."

"It's the _Hunger Games_ ," I hiss pointedly, scowling at her over my shoulder. "It's always morbid."

"That doesn't mean the contestants have to be," she snaps back.

"Says the girl who cried through her interview," I mutter, rolling my eyes.

"It was my strategy," she says. "And it worked. I'm here talking to you now, aren't I? So listen to me. When they call you out there, just act like you did at the opening ceremonies."

Hard to argue with the cold, hard facts. She _did_ win. But _still_. "So what am I supposed to do? Fall off the stage?"

"Shut up, Edmund." She takes a couple steps forward and focuses her attention on Jill, who is standing right in front of me (the girl tributes always proceed the boy tributes from each district in the interviews, sort of like how their names get pulled out of the reaping bowl first). "Jill, shoulders back. Are you sucking on a mint? Swallow it."

I liked Johanna better when she drank. She's almost sober, and even though that's probably a good thing-means she'll be alert enough to make sure our sponsors' gifts reach us in the arena-it's also frustrating because she gets tense, which makes her bossy and grumpy.

Which, in turn, makes her impossible.

In my search for something-anything, really-to focus on, I find my eyes drawn to the front of the line, where Peter is talking to Lucy and Eustace, telling them they're going to do just fine.

That's right, I think, Lucy is up first. After all, she's from District 1.

"Eustace, deep breath," Peter instructs him. "Deep breath, draw it in."

Eustace sharply draws his breath and holds it.

"Um, you're supposed to let it out!" Peter exclaims when his charge's face starts going slightly blue.

Eustace exhales dramatically. "Phew."

Peter moans and rubs his temples. "Give me the strength to make it through this night..."

Lucy swallows hard. "I don't think I can do this."

"You have to," he reminds her.

She takes a deep breath. Unlike Eustace, she doesn't need to be told to release it.

"Now, the first of our District 1 tributes for the 77th Hunger Games, Miss Lucy Pevensie!" calls Caesar.

Lucy wipes her sweaty palms on the skirt of the billowy pink dress she's wearing. I notice she's trembling as she takes her first few shaky steps towards the stage.

"Peter..." She stops and looks back at her brother.

"I'm right here," he says encouragingly. "Go on."

Caesar smiles when she comes into view and tells her to have a seat.

She sits with her hands in her lap. Her hair hangs loose and the hue of her dress looks a little darker under the stage lights. Sitting like that, she appears very close to the age I mistook her for the first time I saw her.

With a sickening thud in my chest, I figure out what she reminds me of. She looks very like one of those pitiful statues they sometimes put on young children's graves. (Well, _rich_ children's anyway; poor kids, at least the ones back home in 7, are lucky to get a wooden marker with their names spelled properly on them if they die young.) Innocence personified; head raised, but just slightly, hollow (barely visible) eyes glancing vaguely upwards...

"So, Lucy," says Caesar, "can you tell us how you felt when you learned the Gamemakers had given you a ten?"

"Well," she says, barely audible, "I was glad..."

"I'm sure," laughs Caesar. "Can you elaborate?"

"I guess all I can say is I did my best." She forces a weak smile. "I hope no one will count me out, you know, just because I'm not as strong as some of the past tributes from my district."

" _I_ wouldn't," Caesar assures her. "Not in a million years."

Her lower lip is quivering. She's miserable out there. I can't be the only one who notices this, I know I can't. Her sponsors are probably watching her right now, wondering why the girl they've put money on to win a killing game seems as though she might burst into tears at any moment.

"Now, you have something of a legacy to uphold, is that right?" Caesar asks next. "Your brother was a victor not too long ago. So, I'm sure everyone here tonight, and everyone viewing this in the comfort of their homes, are just aching to know, do you feel like you have some big shoes to fill, or is this something you're prepared to do your own way?"

Her voice is weak. "I don't know. All I know," she falters, "is I don't want to die."

"You mean you want to win," Caesar corrects her. His voice is light, but his meaning is dark. He's making sure she hasn't messed herself up by unwittingly insulting the Capitol with her overly innocent statement.

For one horrible moment, I think she is going to shake her head. Part of me wishes she will, just to see what will happen. But another part of me, a smarter part, knows better. Instead, she nods and whispers, "Yes. I want to win."

"And, with that ten, you stand a great chance of doing so. Maybe we'll be interviewing you after the games."

She completely loses it. Those tears I was becoming more and more sure she wouldn't be able to hold back much longer finally erupt and several sobs escape her. All of Panem is watching the girl from District 1 blubbing like a baby.

Her nose goes red (her face nearly turns the colour of her dress) and she sniffles uncontrollably, tears streaming down her face like two rivers that start at her eyes and end in little waterfalls on opposite sides of her chin.

"I did it so much better," Johanna mutters. "Those have got to be the worst, most utterly unconvincing, crocodile tears I've ever seen!"

I, personally, don't know what to believe. I mean, she seems so harmless, and her tears look pretty genuine to me. They're the exact opposite of Anne's the day my name was drawn in the reaping, that's why I think I can tell. But, all the same, Lucy _is_ a Career, and they aren't above manipulating people. In the Hunger Games, no one is. Johanna was no Career, didn't even stand a chance of forming a temporary alliance with them, and she did it without a second thought.

Only, the thing is, pity doesn't generally win you sponsors the way endurance does. They like a good show. They'll take blood and gore over tears and red-noses any day. Crying her eyes out didn't win Johanna more than a handful of halfway decent sponsors at best. It was by making the other contestants think she was pathetic that she won. It wasn't because folks were lining up to throw their money at the whimpering girl tribute from District 7.

And, as Career-stock with a high score, Lucy, in spite of her size, has no more chance of making herself seem like a poor fighter to be bumped off at the last minute than she has of lifting the entire Training Center up over her head. No mentor with a half a brain would suggest tears as a strategy in her situation. And, whatever else he is, I don't take Peter for a fool.

Caesar does his best to bring her back. He says something cheerful and tries to offer her a handkerchief, but Lucy has become seemingly inconsolable. No matter what he does, he can't reach her, can't get through to her.

Peter lowers his forehead to his palm. He's not taking this so well, either.

So I was right. He didn't expect her to cry out there. They didn't plan this together. Fake or real, her tears were not prompted by her brother's coaching.

Just as her three minutes are up, Lucy all but _shoots_ out of her chair and runs backstage to where the rest of us are.

More specifically, where Peter is.

She throws herself into his arms, weeping. "I'm sorry..." She knows she's messed up her interview.

"Shh..." He holds her close to him and whisper-hums something that sounds like a lullaby as he rubs her back and strokes her hair. " _When the gentle breezes blow, violins play their sweet song... There's no sweeter sound I know..._ "

Lucy's sobs begin to lessen and her flow of tears stops. The tune and words appear to have a calming effect on her, and she must feel safe with her brother holding her protectively.

"Aw, is the a capella concert over already?" Johanna simpers sarcastically, folding her arms across her chest impatiently. "And here I was hoping for an encore of the itsy bitsy spider!"

I bite down hard on my lower lip so I don't laugh. I don't want to laugh at Lucy's fear and pain, even if she is a Career, but Johanna's sardonic comment in this dark situation has put me in danger of chuckling wildly.

My shoulders shake with suppressed laughter.

Eustace is called out and Caesar batters with him about his low score. He makes out, in a cheery jest, that surely Eustace was holding back in his session with the Gamemakers.

Sticking his nose up pretentiously, Eustace runs with that helpful suggestion. "Yes, that's what happened." He smiles. "Wouldn't want to spoil the show for anyone."

"So, what _can_ you tell us about your downplayed skills?" Caesar asks.

"Uh..." Eustace winces. "I...I...well, I don't think I'm supposed to talk about it."

"Your mentor tell you to keep all mum?" says Caesar.

"Yes, that's right." I can tell by the way he bats his eyes and flinches that he's lying. Eustace is the worst liar I've ever seen. Peter has told him nothing of the sort.

"So, what was your reaction when your name was pulled out of the reaping bowl?"

"I was so honoured," he says stiffly. In this, I believe Peter _has_ told him, word-for-word, what to say. "I never thought I would be chosen." He sounds like a bad actor selling an over-rated product on an infomercial.

"So, if you win these games, what's the first thing you plan to do afterward?"

For the first time in his interview, Eustace sounds exactly like I imagine he really is. Not a nervous jittery thing, not an over-coached puppet, not even a Career: just a small neat-freak, borderline pansy, from District 1. "Have a bath."

The crowd roars with laughter. It's sad, but this is the only thing he's said that has staying power with the Capitol.

"And after that?" chuckles Caesar.

"Oh, spend the prize money, of course."

More laughter.

His time is up. Peter, whose arm is still around Lucy's shoulders, half-shrugs at him.

Clove goes out next. She talks about how she can throw daggers and hand-fight, though she won't say whether or not that's what impressed the Gamemakers. She also states several times that this year's victor will definitely be from District 2. I find it interesting, though, that she doesn't necessarily say it will be _her_.

Cato's interview is similar to hers, except he goes on about swords, not daggers.

The scary girl from District 3, the one who got the same score as I did, has her turn.

She marches out there dressed up like an empress with her glaringly white arms left bare. She tells icy jokes, all of which have a bitter, cold edge to them. She even says that the other interviews this year are a waste of time, that they should just be interviewing her because _she's_ their next victor.

"I wouldn't be at all surprised if that proved that case," agrees Caesar. "An e-lev-en is nothing to make light of."

Heath doesn't make too much of an impression, but I'm left thinking he'll do fine. He's got as much chance as anyone. If nothing else, he'll make it passed the first day. And that's more than I can honestly believe for some of the others.

Little Gael, in a white dress with purple flowers, her hands folded in her lap, answers every question sweetly and laughs along with Caesar's jokes. She reacts modestly when he praises her six. Her interview ends on a high note when she says that when she grows up, she wants to be just like Lucy from District 1.

"Awwww," is the reaction of more than half the audience.

"Wouldn't you love to bring Lucy back out here and get her response to that adorable flattering remark?" asks Caesar, arching a brow. "See if it lifted her spirits a bit?"

A loud applause of agreement immediately follows.

"But, unfortunately," he says, "rules are rules, and Lucy has already had her time."

Light groans of disappointment come up from the crowd, lasting right up until the boy tribute from 4 takes the stage and Gael is out of sight and out of mind.

The interviews for 5 and 6 seem to just fly by.

Ash says little of importance. Not even Caesar can make the fact that he's a lost cause less apparent.

Aside from her simply sitting there being beautiful in a sheer, low-cut, blue dress, the only time Lilliandil's interview is even remotely interesting is when she talks about her brother back home.

When Caesar asks her if she has a boyfriend, she dances around the question and changes the subject. It's not as if she can tell them she's with one of her mentors.

Jill takes her seat, fanning out her cape behind her so that it drapes across the chair like a queen's robe on a throne.

"Don't you look lovely," says Caesar.

"Thank you." She blushes.

"You must have a great designer."

"Oh, I do. Cinna's amazing."

"So, Jill, do you want to tell us about your eight?"

"Not really, Caesar. Honestly, I think the Gamemakers would prefer if I didn't talk about it," she laughs. "But I remember walking out of there thinking I'd ruined my chances."

"And yet you came out right on top."

"I was very surprised," Jill admits.

"Can you tell us all what you've enjoyed the most since your arrival here at the Capitol?"

Jill gives him a toothy grin. "Oh, that's easy. Riding in the glass elevator. And wearing Cinna's designs. I loved my dress for the opening ceremonies. I love this dress, too."

It's going to be hard to compete with her, I think.

Jill isn't at all camera shy, and the crowd must love the animated way she gushes about glass and clothes. As if that was all that mattered.

I didn't expect to feel angry with her, and it's not reasonable to, but part of me does anyway.

She just seems so dashed happy to be here. We're all _supposed_ to be, of course, but still.

It's an act, but I can't help hating her for it. Hating her for the very qualities the Capitol will love most about her.

"I can't say I blame you," laughs Caesar, his shoulders heaving good-naturedly. "That elevator does look like fun. I bet you tributes could ride it all day if you didn't have to go to training."

The audience laughs along with him.

"So, Jill, anything else you'd like to add?"

"Just that, I'd like to win, and if anyone wants to kill me and prevent that, they're going to have to catch me first." Her expression goes from giddy to dead serious. "And I promise, I will _not_ make that easy."

I know what she really means, of course. She wants to win to go home. Just like we all do. But the determination on her face makes me uneasy. Her score is an eight. She's obviously much tougher than she looks. I can't stand the thought of it coming down to the two of us. How can I kill the girl from my own district? But if we're both trying our hardest to survive, beating everything that comes our way, the odds will not be in our favor.

Then again, I have bigger things to worry about. The girl from 3, for instance. Aside from me, she's the only tribute with an eleven. She has every possible reason to want to kill me off on the first day, if she can. And Cato. He's out for blood. _Anyone's_ blood. That includes me. All the more so as I have a higher score than him. I know he wants me air-lifted out of that arena as quickly as possible.

Jill's time is spent and I realize they're calling me out.

Johanna gives me a rather rough nudge forward and, glowering back over my shoulder at her, I (for lack of a better term) lumber onto the stage and take my seat.

"Ah, Edmund Martin," says Caesar; "the tribute who hardly needs an introduction."

Well, I think, that's encouraging.

"We all saw that heart-wrenching moment when that girl heard your name drawn at the reaping and started crying."

Or not so encouraging...

I make a face. I can't help it. Honestly, I think I preferred 'the boy who fell out of the chariot' to 'the boy who Anne Featherstone bawled her whole head off over'.

"Now," Caesar leans forward in his chair, "I'll bet dollars to donuts that pretty young lady was your girlfriend, right?"

Me: "Uh, well... Yeah, kind of."

"Aw, there's no need to be modest. A handsome fellow like you! I don't think a single person out there in our audience tonight believed even for a moment you didn't have someone special waiting back in 7 for you." Caesar winks at the cameras.

I realize for the first time how surreal being interviewed on a talk show is. Because, while I know I will be under the eyes of several cameras in the arena, I won't really _see_ those. Tributes in the arena never do. That's how it works.

Here, on Live With Caesar Flickerman, however, I can see every single lens, every low-hanging microphone, every swinging spotlight being shined almost directly into my eyes...

"So," he adds, "care to tell Panem the name of your District 7 sweetheart?"

No, I don't. Not really. Sighing, I half-mumble, "Anne Featherstone." She's gotten her way (just like she always does). I've said her name on television, which was what she wanted.

"Are you in love with her, Edmund Martin?"

"Uh... Sure, why not." I wave it off quickly, tilting my head in his direction, adding, "So, Caesar, is that a new suit?"

The audience bursts into laughter. They think my uncomfortable evasion of that particular subject is wildly humourous. A few of them (if they're _on_ something) might even think it's romantic, me avoiding the question. Perhaps because I don't want to express my feelings for my girlfriend on a live television show.

I know Anne won't see it that way. Back in District 7, she's no doubt sulking over my changing the subject. I think she would like it best if I wasted my whole short interview blabbering on about how pretty and rich and perfect she is. But I really don't care. This can't _all_ be about _her_. I mean, what about me? I'm the one who's about to be thrown into a bloody arena with twenty-three kids who want to kill me. _Me_. _Not_ Anne blasted Feathersone!

Caesar laughs, informs the crowd that, yes, indeed, his suit _is_ new, and then asks me another question. "Can you tell us what was going through your mind during the opening ceremonies when you were tumbling out of your chariot?"

Almost involuntarily, I roll my eyes. "I was thinking that perhaps the Capitol should have some decent roads to fall on."

Caesar and the audience burst into hysterics. They're laughing so hard that tears are coming out of their eyes.

Secretly, I'm a little relieved. They _could_ have taken that as an insult instead of a jest.

"And how does it feel being one of only two tributes this year to score an eleven with the Gamemakers?"

I shrug. "Fine."

"Okay... I think we have time for one more question. What do you think of the food at the Training Center?"

"My sister's cooking is better," I lie. Same as I did when Peter complimented the Capitol food the night I tried to throw myself off the roof.

"Really? Did you try the lamb stew with dried plums?" Caesar asks. "It's to die for. You'd never know it, but I eat it by the bucketful."

"I don't care about stew," I tell him.

"What do you care about?"

"Winning," I say darkly.

What I _mean_ , of course, is "Surviving this. Not being killed. Going home." But I can't very well say any of _that_. I've already gotten away with semi-insulting the Capitol twice tonight. I will not push my luck.

"Naturally," Caesar says.

My interview is at its end. I get up and go backstage again, standing silently between Johanna and Jill.

The tributes from District 8 have their turn.

District 9 is a nightmare, and I can tell that Caesar is having a hard time getting anything but agreements with every statement he makes out of either of them. Even he is going to have to give them up as a lost cause.

District 10's interviews are a little more interesting, but not by much. The boy talks like he's giving a lecture on how great he is, and the girl has a distinctly unpleasant voice that makes it hard to focus on what she's saying.

By the time 11 has their chance, I can tell the crowd is getting a little bored. But Caesar is too professional to make this apparent. He acts like he doesn't even notice how restless his live studio audience is getting and chatters as freely with the girl from 11 as he did with everyone before her. He-very wisely-doesn't bring up her score.

The boy from 11 (Lucy's ally) shows potential. He has a very educated way of talking for someone from one of the poorest districts in Panem, and with his height and weight I'm sure any number of sponsors are thinking of taking a chance on him. He seems distant, but also very polite and easy. His face gives away nothing. No one can tell what he's thinking.

Finally it's only Gael's ally, Prim, and the boy from District 12 left. The night is almost over, and I'm glad of it.

I'm feeling as if I might fall asleep standing up backstage with all the other tributes who've already had their turns. Lucy, in fact, _is_ asleep, sitting with her back against the wall and her head on Peter's shoulder. Heath looks like he's having some trouble keeping his eyes open as well.

Prim's interview is sweet. She talks about her sister and mentor, Katniss, her mother back home, and her goat, which she says she milks every day so their family can make goat cheese.

When she starts going on about her cat, Daffodil or something, her eyes fill up with water. She doesn't have a full breakdown like Lucy did, but some of her tears do escape and she doesn't bother to wipe them away.

All I can think is that this girl does not stand a chance in the Hunger Games. She's lucky Gael broke away from the other Careers to team up with her. Because without a friend to help her, sister of a past victor or not, she's as good as dead.

The boy from District 12 goes. He doesn't say much. Only that he has very good eye-sight and that the other tributes had best be wary that he might be spying on them, and also that, if they're coming after him, he's sure to see them at least a mile or two off and take flight.

We're escorted to a limousine that takes us back to the Training Center where we belong.

I'm dimly aware of yet another nauseating ride in the glass elevator. Even though I'm used to it, I'm still fuzzy on how Jill can consider it one of the best things about the Capitol.

As it is, after all, the night before the Hunger Games begin, I don't expect to sleep. But sleep I do. After downing a glass of milk I got via a push of a button in my room. And I don't wake up or stir or have any dreams at all.

My first sense of a return to consciousness is Johanna and Pug pounding on my door before the crack of dawn, telling me to get my lazy tush out of bed.

I wonder, appalled, if I was drugged. If something was slipped into my milk. If the Capitol was making sure I slept a solid eight hours before they threw me into the arena.

For some reason, this possibility makes me feel so unreservedly outraged, I half-want to go back up to the roof and try jumping again.

Sure, I can't kill myself by falling, but if I get electrocuted by that force-field of theirs enough times...

But, no, I'm sure the Capitol has taken this into account and hasn't made the electric flow _quite_ strong enough for that.

Besides, I can't get to the roof today. I'm watched every second. Pulled this way and that in a hurry.

I've got to be made ready.

My stylist, Portia, hands me a bundle of folded clothes. The clothes I'll wear in the arena. These weren't designed by any of the tributes' stylists, though they're the ones in charge of distributing them to us. They were designed sometime during the first few Hunger Games, ages ago.

Everyone in the arena, boy or girl, wears the same thing. A pair of black tights, a matching black doublet with their district number sewn with red-gold thread into the upper right corner, and a long white shirt under that.

If the Gamemakers make it cold, we keep on the doublets, which are designed to keep us reasonably warm despite the fact that they won't be a proper substitute for shelter or even a decent blanket. And if they make it hot, we can take the doublets off and wander around in only our white shirts.

Once I'm properly dressed, Anne's gold bird-with-arrow pin secured to the upper left side of my doublet, Johanna escorts me (and Jill) to a special chamber where all the tributes are waiting to be lifted up into the arena.

We're all supposed to stand on our metal plates after they're lifted for sixty seconds. Then at the sound of a cannon (similar to the cannon that signifies a death in the arena, but not exactly the same) we're allowed to run for it. Whether we go for the cornucopia or take off for a hiding place, that's up to each one of us. No rules. Just that we can't get off our plates before the cannon booms. Because if we do, there's some kind of bomb around each plate that will blow up the cheating tribute.

But the plates aren't lifted yet. Thus they aren't activated. I can even see Peter, near the District 1 plates, leaning over and giving Lucy a hug goodbye. A lump forms in my throat and hardens. I only feel worse when I see Katniss kissing Prim on the forehead.

I don't allow myself to turn my head and see Caspian and Lilliandil from 6 bidding each other farewell, though I know they must be. Not too romantically, probably, since there are so many people present. But even Peter seems to know they're friends, so a tearful goodbye is not ruled out. And I'm not sure I can handle any more of those. It's like looking directly at the sun; it burns my eyes and makes me feel sick.

To distract myself, I look to Johanna. "Any last minute advice?"

"Yes," she says. "Don't be a hero in there. It's every man for himself."

"What about me?" says Jill.

"Every woman for herself," Johanna barks hastily. "Same advice. Fight. Remember to save yourself. And try not to do anything stupid. Understood?"

I nod. So does Jill.

A countdown has begun. I can feel the plate rising under me.

I catch one last glimpse of Peter holding Lucy's hand before he finally has to let go, knowing the soon to be activated metal plate will blow off his arm if he doesn't.

My chest hurts.

Suddenly I'm standing under a clear, cloudless blue sky.

I know it's fake, part of the arena, but the Gamemakers' faux-skies look even more real in person than they do on television.

All around me, and the other tributes, are walls and walls of what look like perfectly-trimmed eight or nine foot high hedges. But there must be a pine forest (or at least a wood) somewhere about, even if I can't see it, because the smell of distant pine, so like home, travels on the wind and tickles my nostrils.

The cornucopia shines under the sun, full of gleaming weapons and packets of food. Backpacks and knapsacks left here and there in a semi-circle. Loafs of bread are on the ground, but the ones close to any of the plates are much smaller than the large ones nearer the cornucopia.

The girl from District 11 goes into hysterics, screaming and crying.

It takes a minute for me to see what she's so worked up about. Then I register a boom (not a cannon) I heard a second ago without thinking about it.

The metal plate the boy from District 8 should be standing on (it hasn't been sixty seconds yet) is empty, save for a pool of blood and a piece of charred black nylon.

He killed himself. Or he tried to cheat. I don't know which. None of us really do. All we know is that it's one down already.

The girl from District 8 doesn't scream, but she _does_ go rather green in the face.

Prim is crying, though. She must have seen it happen.

 _Boom!_ The cannon has gone off. We can get off our plates now. (The cannon signaling the first death won't go off until tonight, because a large number of tributes are expected to die fighting at the cornucopia and it would be too confusing to fire off all the cannons at the same time.)

What am I going to do? I could run and start searching for that pine forest. Then perhaps try to find a source of water in there. But without weapons or resources? How am I supposed to make it unarmed?

I shouldn't go running straight into a battle with the Careers, but I _did_ score an eleven. Surely someone with an eleven can manage to get away with a sword and a little bit of food...

So I run for the first good-sized sword I see. One I know I'll be able to wield well.

I'm just about to grab the hilt of my sword when another, much smaller, hand reaches for it at the same time.

All right, who's the prat? I think, furious. This tribute's way too small to use my sword properly! What good would their taking it be? Except to put me a slight disadvantage?

I look up. It's Lucy.

"Bugger off," I mutter, roughly shoving her aside and grasping my sword. "I was here first."

I know that the second my adrenaline stops pumping I'll feel bloody awful for what I've just done. I even know, immediately, how disappointed my parents and Susan undoubtedly are in me for being mean to a girl on television, Career or not. And for being such a potty-mouth.

 _Hey Mum, I'm on television knocking down a girl smaller than me during my first day in the Hunger Games!_ Yeah, I can see how that wouldn't go over well with her...

But, for the moment, all I can make myself care about is getting away. I manage to grab a knapsack and, hoping it has food in it, sling it over my shoulder.

The sword isn't strapped to my side properly, so I have to hold onto the scabbard tightly so I don't lose it. Once I'm a safe distance away from the other tributes, I'll fasten it to my hip.

Panting, I glance over my shoulder.

Lucy hasn't gotten back up.

If she's hurt, if one of the Careers decides to thrust a dagger in her side before she can get to her feet again as punishment for abandoning them, it will be my fault.

It strikes me out of nowhere: why she wanted my sword. Not because of anything to do with _me_. It's entirely possible she didn't even know I was going for the same sword until it was too late.

There seems to be only two bows and two quivers of arrows among the weapons, best I can make out. Jill has somehow gotten one. The Careers are holding the other hostage, even if none of them are experts with it.

The swords small enough for Lucy to use are too far in the cornucopia. She'll only get herself killed if she tries for them. So it was only natural that she went for the next best thing: a bigger sword.

And if even she can't use it, maybe her ally can.

Her ally! Of _course_!

"Emeth!" she cries.

She does not die, not today. He's going to help her. I can see him running over and grasping her elbows, pulling her up.

Clove, perched with Cato on top of the cornucopia, tries to throw a dagger at Lucy, but Emeth hurls a rock at her, making her lurch. She's almost falls, but Cato grabs her arm.

The dagger _does_ reach it's target, only not in the way Clove clearly intended. It lands harmlessly beside Lucy, who picks it up and clutches the hilt. Emeth grabs a backpack and a loaf of bread and they start running.

Eustace gets in their way. It looks accidental. He stands in front of them, gaping, like he doesn't know what to do.

Cato and Clove are screaming something at him. Cato sounds particularly peeved.

I know I have to keep running. I can catch my breath later. The longer I stay around here, the more likely I am to be caught and killed by another tribute.

But every way I turn, I'm surrounded by hedge walls. What is this even supposed to _be_?

A _maze_. It's a maze! It must be!

I dash into several openings, hoping they won't lead me to dead-ends. I've never liked mazes. Not even the ones Susan likes to do in black marker on the back of cereal boxes.

Unfortunately, I run into four dead ends in a row. The good news is that every time I turn back around, I'm lucky enough that there's no tributes behind me with weapons.

In fact, I only run into one other tribute during this mad sprint through the maze. The girl from 5. And she seems to have no interest in hunting me. If I don't bother her, she doesn't want to bother me.

What impresses me is that the dead end we meet in doesn't seem to faze her as it does me. She merely starts climbing.

Why didn't _I_ think of that? I'm not a bad climber! I like climbing rocks; how different can a big bush be?

There may be prickers (knowing the gamemakers, probably poisonous), but I watch how the fox-faced girl climbs, lightly testing each place she moves herself to with the back of her wrist first.

Strapping my knapsack and sword to my back, I climb up the same path she did.

We meet again on the other side. We shrug at each other and run off in opposite directions.

I'm going towards what looks like the start of my pine forest. The one I smelled back by the cornucopia. She's probably going towards water, which is most likely smarter. But I'm almost positive there must be a stream that runs through the trees somewhere. Or at least a spring. And, if it's not as obvious, it won't be as closely guarded by the Careers once it's found.

It's getting dark when I finally find a dense woodsy place to open my knapsack and see what I've got to live on for now. But no sooner have I sat down than I hear voices.

Pick a tree, I think, any tree.

I scramble behind the tree my back would have been up against if I'd had a chance to make myself comfortable.

The girl from District 11 turns up. She looks exhausted, her hair matted and her doublet ruffled and caked with mud.

Is _this_ what I'm hiding from? The girl who scored a _one_?

"How dreadful!" she whimpers. "I'm shaking all over! My poor, poor nerves."

Why does she have to whine so _loudly_? Anyone could hear! Figures I'd be stuck hiding within spitting distance of the most clueless tribute in the arena.

Somehow or other, she's gotten her hands on a flint rock and a small piece of steel and, stupid as she is, knows how to use them. She's gathered a pile of sticks and pine cones and nettles, which she's about to set on fire.

I want to jump out and smack her for being such an idiot.

There's too much green in that fire. The smoke will be everywhere. Worse still, the fire itself will be like a beacon, calling whatever tributes survived the blood-bath at the cornucopia over here. She'll get herself killed. Surely the Careers are out of the hedge maze by now... They'll be coming.

I make up my mind to jump out and tackle her to the ground before she can start a fire, but I miscalculate when the right moment will be and, before I can do anything about it, she's got a roaring, smoke-filled fire blazing.

I hear footsteps and voices, closer even than I'd thought. I recognize Cato's voice and I know I have to stay hidden now. Being stationed behind a tree isn't a very good hiding place, but it's all I've got at the moment.

If Cato does see me, I'll climb the tree, up into the branches, and drop pine cones on his head.

"Well, well." Clove's voice. I peek out and see the girl from 11, her eyes wide with terror. Now she knows what a bloody stupid thing she's done. "What have we here?"

"No, please..." The girl cries and begs, falling on her knees. She even vows to team up with them if only they'll spare her.

"Lasaraleen," says Clove. "That's your name, isn't it?"

The girl nods shakily.

Cato smirks in the firelight and nudges Peridan, who is with them. I don't see Eustace and I wonder if he is already dead. Killed in the blood-bath earlier.

"I'm afraid we don't have much use for a _one_." Clove raises her dagger. "Goodbye."

Lasaraleen tries to run, but Cato grabs her arms and holds her in place.

Shaking, I press my back against the tree and shut my eyes.

I can't look. I can't watch this. It's bad enough seeing things like this on television every year. But hearing her screams in person, knowing she has one chance (me), and I can't give it to her, I can't jump out and save her...not without getting myself killed...I can't take that.

A cannon goes off. She's dead. I'm sorry.

More cannons. Signifying the other tributes who have died today.

"Come on, let's clear out," says Peridan. His voice sounds weak. I don't think he enjoyed killing that girl as much as Cato and Clove did.

"Wait, she might have supplies," says Cato.

"She's too stupid to have grabbed anything of use."

"What'd she start the fire with, then?"

"I've already got the flint," Clove tells them. "Let's go before the hovercraft gets here to pick up her pathetic little body."

I crawl on my hands and knees (my own supplies and weapon on my back) until I'm far away from the Careers, going in the exact opposite direction as them, and, collapsing on top of a large tree-root, pull my knees to my chest.

The famous seal of Panem appears in the sky. The Hunger Games' anthem plays. They're going to show who's dead.

For a few moments, photographs of the dead tributes will light up the night sky. It won't even show their names, or how they died. Just their district numbers.

The boy from District 8 who blew himself up is shown first. Then both tributes from 9. The girl from from 10.

Lasaraleen from 11 is the last face they show before the sky goes back to normal. Stars shine. A thin, misty black cloud passes over the crescent moon.

Tears fill my eyes. I could have saved her. I had a sword. No, I couldn't have saved her. Cato would have killed me. Or Clove. Or even Peridan. Most likely, all three would have been on me at once. My eleven must stick out like a sore thumb.

I can't think about that anymore. So instead of focusing on who's dead, I try to remember who's alive.

I was clearly wrong about Eustace. He's alive. I don't know if the Careers have kicked him out of their alliance or not, why he wasn't with them when they killed Lasaraleen, but he's alive.

Ash from District 6, by some miracle, has made it through the first day. If I see him, I think I may be more tempted to shake his hand and congratulate him than to actually fight him. Lilliandil is still alive, too. She must have found her way out of the hedge maze. Or hidden somewhere in it.

Lucy is alive, and I'm glad of it. If she'd died today, I'd blame myself even more for her death than I do for Lasaraleen's.

Because I shoved her without due cause. Yes, I was only looking out for myself, but it wasn't really self-defense.

Or _was_ it?

Part of me wonders if, subconsciously, I really wanted her dead today. So I didn't have to think-or worry-about her anymore in the arena. So I didn't have the risk of running into her again.

It wasn't _physical_ self-defense, of course, but I might have been trying to protect myself from more than simply being without a weapon.

The thought sobers me. Thank goodness she's got Emeth. Peter must be thinking the same thing. I wonder what he thought when he saw me shove her. He must hate me.

Jill from my district is out there somewhere. Her face wasn't in the sky tonight. The bow and arrows she grabbed must have helped her make it through the day.

The fox-face girl lives. As does the 'dwarf' from her district.

The boy from 10, the boy from 12, both alive. 12... Wait, _Prim_! Prim is alive. Gael must have helped her. Gael's alive, too, then. They made it through the first day. Good for them.

I yawn. There's more (the girl from 8 and Heath, for instance...and someone else...someone important...), but my brain is dying to shut off. I don't think I can sleep here, though. Too risky.

I find a hollow under the tree the roots I've been sitting on belong to. I crawl into it, cover myself with fallen leaves and pine needles, and use my knapsack as a pillow.

My name is Edmund Martin. I am fifteen years old. I am in the 77th Hunger Games. And I have lived through day one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: If anyone's curious/doesn't already know, the lullaby Peter sang part of to Lucy in this chapter is a real song, I didn't make it up. I was thinking of inventing a fake song (like I did for 'The Traitors') but since it was such a short snippet it seemed like a lot of work for nothing.


	14. Chapter 14: Jill

It was my second day in the arena and I thought I was going to die of thirst.

I'd managed to grab a bow and arrows from the cornucopia. Of course, Johanna Mason was probably shaking her head at the screen the entire time, wondering how a tribute she was responsible for could be _that_ stupid. But I knew I was fast, and I didn't really try to take anything else. Not even food. Simply because I figured I could shoot a rabbit or take down a deer, which I assumed would be safer than trying to pinch food supplies the Careers wanted for themselves.

However, I should have thought twice about not even trying to grab a bottle of water.

After getting out of the hedge maze our metal plates had been lifted up into (and having a potentially nasty run-in with Cecilia from District 8), I'd headed for the fringes of the pine forest.

I was hesitant, because I thought Edmund, undoubtedly reminded of home, same as I was, might be headed that way, too, and I didn't want to run into him; but in the end I decided to risk it.

Not knowing what else to do when I got there, I simply climbed a tall tree and fell asleep in the branches. Not too many people feel comfortable sleeping high up; so I knew this wasn't the first place the Careers (if they decided they wanted me gone) would come looking for me.

Through the leafy branches, I'd seen the dead tributes' faces light up the night sky.

Edmund was still alive; that didn't surprise me in the least. Yet, it _was_ strange how I equally dreaded both the thought of him on the loose, roaming the arena (that eleven he'd scored made him almost as dangerous as a Career tribute from my point of view, so I couldn't help fearing him), and the thought of him being taken out of it by the hovercraft (he was from my district, a tie to home-to more familiar things-I didn't want him _dead_ ).

In contrast, I didn't feel the same conflicting emotions about Jadis Charn. I might not have been _surprised_ that she made it through the first day, but I certainly wasn't _happy_ about it, either.

All morning, beginning at sunrise when my eyes snapped open and I remembered where I was (in an arena, up a tree, on a live television show), I stayed around the thinning edge of where the trees began, worried about my lack of water. The few tributes I'd seen the day before (including the girl from 8) had gone the other way. The Careers, too. There had to be a reason for that.

Was it because of a big lake or some other generous water source? Probably. And the thought made my parched throat ache and dry tongue prickle.

It got to the point where I jolly nearly didn't mind so much, running into a pack of well-armed Career tributes, if only I could have been sure of getting a mouthful of water before they attacked.

If I'd known then that there was a good stream within only two miles, concealed by a dense fir grove, I would have never risked it. Armed with my bow and arrows, I would have gone deeper into the woods, not out into the open grassland.

Looking back, it would have been more clever, even without the aid of the knowledge I have now, to at least have _tried_ to find water in my safe-zone, seeing as I played the fool back at the cornucopia, only thinking about what I would eat and not what I would _drink_. But, alas, my mind was growing fuzzy from the beginnings of dehydration and I assumed the Gamemakers would have arranged for as few water sources as possible. It wasn't without precedent, after all. That was a true blue, easy as pie, way of getting tributes together for a big bloody row. They'd done it plenty of times before, so that the tributes couldn't all hide in their little corners of the arena, boring the Capitol home-viewing audience to distraction.

An arrow on the bow-string, swallowing hard and making my throat burn, I stepped out into the open and walked for what felt like hours. (Really, it mightn't have been longer than twenty minutes at best.)

I followed the signs. Bugs, changes in air temperature... Anything that gave me the smallest of hints, I took off after.

I was silent as a ghost; I'm absolutely positive my feet didn't crunch so much as even _one_ fallen dead leaf the entire time, and I left only the most unavoidable, minimal tracks behind me.

Finally, pushing my way through some tall reeds, I came to the longed-for lake, glistening like a gray-blue diamond in the high-morning arena sun.

There didn't seem to be anybody around.

That was suspicious, but my thirst was even more urgent by then. And the water looked so sweet and welcoming. I just couldn't help myself; I ran out there, bow not raised nearly high enough (if I shot anyone with an arrow fitted like _that_ , I would be lucky to hit their _kneecaps_ ).

Still nobody came.

They were out hunting; they had to be. Somewhere in the arena the Careers were tracking down another tribute, not me, and the water was free.

That's a real brainwave, I thought as I crouched down at the edge of the lake and started scooping up water in my hands, it must be that.

One sip later, I was convinced it was the best water I'd ever tasted, the purest and sweetest. My throat cried out for more. I dipped my cupped hands back into the lake, preparing to oblige it.

But that handful never reached my still parched lips.

"Ahem."

I whirled around, standing up and grasping my bow. Thirsty as I was, I dropped the water in my hands instantly, letting it fall, wasted, onto the dry ground.

Clove stood there, a dagger raised.

I could have tried to shoot an arrow at her, but I knew I had a better chance of out-running her than I did out-fighting her. If I shot her, she'd only throw her dagger right into my heart, and I'd have missed my chance to get away. The split-second before she threw, the time I would have wasted firing off my arrow, would be the only moment I had to get a head start racing back the way I'd come.

Unfortunately, I was only a few feet away when I felt big, strong arms wrap around me, pulling me back towards Clove.

My bow was pressed hard against my abdomen. I kicked, shoved, squirmed and bit with all my might.

The Career boy, who I identified as Peridan, only clutched me tighter.

"You're coming with us," Clove told me, teasingly dragging the point of her dagger against my neckline without breaking the skin.

Why wouldn't they just kill me and have done with it? How long did they plan to drag this out? I had made a stupid, stupid mistake, coming out there, it was true. Yet I didn't think I deserved to be tormented for it. Peridan was probably strong enough to snap my neck like a twig. If I was lucky, I wouldn't even feel it. Then again, Careers weren't known for making deaths easy; they were known for making them interesting.

"I can't believe you were dumb enough to think we'd leave the lake unguarded, District 7." She laughed mockingly, pulling her dagger away from my neck and sheathing it. "You must be thirsty."

There was no point in lying. "I'm _dying_ of thirst," I told her.

"If she's thirsty, let her drink, Clove," said Peridan. I could feel his voice vibrating through my backbone; that's how close he was holding me. "There's no point in any of this if she just faints from dehydration."

Clove held up a canteen, already filled with water, to my lips. "Here. Drink."

Poison? I wondered. Are they going to poison me?

Perhaps all of Panem was about to see me writhing on the arena ground, foaming at the mouth, in a few short moments.

She carelessly splashed half the water in my face when I didn't drink right away (what did she care about wasting it when she could just re-fill it at the lake whenever she wanted?).

It didn't burn my eyes or smell abnormal, which was a good sign. It burned going up my nose, but even the purest water in the world would have. Swallowing hard, I gave in and drank deeply from the canteen.

Nothing happened afterward. I felt no stomach cramps, there was no bitter aftertaste. It tasted exactly the same as the mouthful of lake water I gotten. So it wasn't a trick.

But what reason could they possibly have to be kind to me? To give me a drink of good water? Peridan seemed the nicest of the non-rogue Careers, and letting me drink had been his idea, but even he had no reason to do me any favors.

They hauled me a few miles down a path to a campsite they'd set up with various things from the cornucopia. Tents, sleeping bags, food, weapons...you name it, they had it.

I was feeling quite green with envy, truth be told. How was it fair that all I'd gotten was a bow and arrows, because I was scared of being caught, and they, who had ended up with everything, caught me anyway?

Sitting in the middle of the camp on a thick log was Cato. His sword was strapped to his side, and what appeared to be a loaded pistol was laid across his lap.

A _gun_? The Gamemakers put a _gun_ in the arena? And _Cato_ had it? How horrid! The most terrible part was that the Gamemakers had to of known that only a strong Career tribute would be able to get deep enough in the Cornucopia to get their hands on that weapon. No one who would have used it mainly for self-dense had a chance of obtaining it.

It was a murder weapon, not a tool for survival.

He must have noticed the look on my face, how white I'd gone, gawking at the pistol, because he said, "Don't worry, I'm not going to shoot you. Not yet, anyway."

"Why?" I croaked out.

"We have a proposition for you." Cato picked up the pistol and pointed with the butt of it, gesturing at something to his left. "Look that way."

I looked. To my surprise, there was Eustace, rolled on his side, his hands and feet bound with rope and his mouth gagged with a piece of dirty nylon.

I wondered, appalled, if it was the same blood-caked nylon that had been left behind when the boy from District 8 stepped off his metal plate too soon.

"As you're probably aware, we had an alliance with that useless lump you see tied up over there."

I gulped. They were going to do something awful. All this had to be building up to something. Something dreadful they were going to do, or wanted _me_ to do. I just didn't know what.

"He betrayed us by letting the girl from District 1 and her blockheaded ally escape."

"Mf pus mn acmdemp!" Eustace tried saying though his gag. (I _think_ he meant, "It was an accident!")

"Clove and I were going to kill him," Cato continued, "but Peridan here insisted we give him another chance. Which is why you are such a lucky catch, Jill Pole from District 7."

I blinked uncomprehendingly.

"Here's how it's going to work," he told me. "We-Clove, myself, Peridan, and probably all of Panem, since the cameras won't want to miss _this_ -watch you and Eustace fight to the death." He shifted his gaze over to Eustace again. "If he wins, we forgive him and let him back into the alliance. If _you_ win, we've given him a chance, he simply wasn't strong enough to meet our terms, and you can take his place."

A sick feeling of illness and indignation washed over me. I would _never_ ally myself with a vicious pack of Careers! Not only was it immoral, against everything I believed in, but how did I know the second I failed to meet up to their expectations they wouldn't merely stick a knife in my back? I mean, I was still half-afraid Clove would do it with her dagger _before_ I even had a chance to fight Eustace.

And, furthermore, if there was one thing I hated, it was bullies who forced their victims to do things against their will simply because they were outmatched or outnumbered. I'd been the cornered victim too many times in my life. Which might have been why I especially pitied Eustace right then. Because, at the moment, he, too, was on the bum end of the bully/bullied spectrum.

"What if I win and I don't want to be your ally?" I asked.

Cato waved his gun. "I shoot you. We can find somebody else to replace him."

I supposed I wouldn't have been their first choice anyway, even with my eight; I wasn't their first pick for a new ally, just their first catch of the day.

It was a fortunate thing, though, that, regardless of my size, they knew I was useful. If I'd had a painfully low score, if I didn't stand a chance of putting on a good fighting show, I'm sure they would have killed me the second they found me by the lake.

All too well, I understood. They wanted to watch their former ally suffer at the hands of someone who could give him the licking of a lifetime. Maybe Peridan didn't think that way, but Clove and Cato definitely hadn't planned out this duel to show Eustace mercy.

I probably could have killed Eustace (it really wouldn't have taken a feat of great strength to win a fight against _him_ ). Except, I didn't want to. I didn't want to kill him any more than I wanted to join the Careers. If I was going to win, I was going to do this on my own. Although, in all fairness, if I had had an ally, they probably would have been able to talk me out of going to the lake without a proper escape plan.

Suddenly I knew what I wanted. Perhaps even needed. I wanted Eustace for my ally. He was a misfit Career with a low score, but I had a feeling they were writing off his useful attributes too quickly. He read a lot; that much I knew about him, on account of his snotty remarks to me regarding my frivolous romance book back in the Training Center. And if he read books of 'real information', I realized he had to know things I didn't.

He might be far more knowledgeable when it came to things like plants and animals than the other Careers, but my guess was he couldn't shoot an arrow straight to save his life. If I spared him, made him agree to my terms, not those of a Career, but of a poorer tribute, I could promise to help shoot food. He might know what a bear or deer with good eating on it _looked_ like, but without me, he'd never take it down.

But even if I refused to fight him, the Careers wouldn't leave him alive much longer. They'd find another tribute, bigger and stronger, to kill him off as their initiation into an alliance with them. If I wanted him for my ally, I would have to lie, pretend to agree to the Careers' terms. After that, I hadn't the foggiest, but I knew I'd think of something.

I had to find a way to out-smart them. Cato seemed like he was mostly a brute; he didn't strike me as being particularly clever, though I knew I could have been wrong. There was obviously _some_ intelligence in him; even if he wasn't the smartest of the bunch, he wasn't a fool. Now, Clove and Peridan, they clearly had well-functioning brains in those thick skulls of theirs. Pulling the wool over their eyes wouldn't be a piece of cake.

I wondered if Peridan would spare me-even assist me in some small way-if he knew I meant to try and save Eustace, but I quickly ruled that option out. He might not have wanted Eustace dead straight off, but he wouldn't risk his own standing in the alliance over his safety. How could he? After seeing how they treated Eustace when he let the girl from his own district and her ally get away? True, he was bigger and stronger than Eustace, but he wasn't going to last long if Cato got fed up and put a bullet in his back.

If I truly wanted this, I had to figure out the details myself, even if it meant largely making them up as I went along.

"I've decided your alliance is the one for me," I lied, feeling Peridan's arms loosening their hold on me slightly, "and I'll gladly kill him for you."

Cato put his gun back down on his lap. "Good choice."

Peridan let go of me. I grasped my bow so it didn't fall to the ground.

"No bow," Clove ordered; "fight him with only the arrow. Cato, untie Eustace and give him back his pocketknife."

I would be fighting with the tip of an arrow against a pocketknife. How ghastly!

"Wait, I want to ask you all something," I interjected quickly.

"What?" demanded Cato.

"If I kill him for you and join your alliance, may I have the bow and arrows you got from the cornucopia?"

"Why would you want them when you already have your own?" Cato asked, his eyes narrowing.

"Things happen," I said. "I could lose or break my bow and be stuck without a replacement. And having an extra quiver of arrows wouldn't hurt. Besides, it's not like you'll be losing anything, if I'm hunting on your side anyway."

"Fine," he agreed. "You kill Eustace, and we'll give them to you."

"Put them out where I can see them," I risked requesting.

To my surprise, Clove did so, taking out the extra bow and arrows from their stash of weapons and placing them on the ground. Then she took my bow away from me and put it next to them.

They expected me to win back my own bow as well as theirs. Only, I wasn't planning on winning anything. At least, not the way they wanted me to.

"This is going to be good." If I'd disliked Cato before, I hated him borderline fiercely when I saw what he did next.

In an arena where at least some of the tributes were probably already feeling hunger pains, he was cockily going for snacks.

I would have loved to see Clove and Peridan tell him off for not rationing the food properly, but it must have been common knowledge amongst the three of them that they weren't in any immediate danger of running out of eatables.

I hated them _all_ (even Peridan) for being so cocksure. And, a mite nervously, I wondered if I hadn't seemed a bit too cocksure myself in my interview with Caesar Flickermen.

Well, regardless, you would never catch _me_ being so careless with food in a Hunger Games arena. Not even if I had mountains and mountains of it to spare! Anything could happen; the Gamemakers themselves could decide to take the supplies out at a moment's notice in some tragic landslide or sinkhole.

Then again, that might have been why they were so set on gorging and splurging. Because they had it for the time being, and who knew if it would still be there later.

All the same, I still thought they were foolhardy and acted in poor taste, and even poorer judgment.

Untied, Eustace stood before me with his pocketknife in his trembling left hand. He'd never killed anyone before-of that I was certain.

Well, neither had I. And if things worked out, I knew neither one of us would be killing the other. Not on that day, anyhow.

I clenched my fist, wrapping my fingers tightly around the middle of my arrow.

As I fully expected to, within three seconds, I knocked Eustace flat on his back. No blood was drawn yet, and it was so obviously an uneven match that even the Careers looked irritated. I noticed Clove rolling her eyes. Cato was shrugging, like he didn't care either way. Peridan looked a bit dejected; if any of them wanted Eustace to win over me, he did.

After all, he knew Eustace from those three days of training, likely even _trusted_ him to some extent; but he didn't know much-if anything-about me.

I thought back to what Gael, from Peridan's own district, had said when she'd broken off from the alliance: "Peridan will look after Eustace." And he was definitely trying to do so, but failing miserably. I wondered how he felt about that. How Lucy and Gael would feel, if they knew what was happening. As Careers, I wondered whose side they would have taken if they'd been there.

Pretending to come down on Eustace with my arrow, I actually only poked the side of his doublet, leaning my face close to his. "If you want to live, wait for my signal."

He blinked twice. I wondered if that meant the same as a nod. He might try to kill me if I let him live now. There was no guarantee he would want me for an ally, whatever I had to offer. I was from a poorer district and he was from one of the richest; I had to keep that in mind. He might well think himself too high above the salt for the likes of me. All the same, he would have to be a complete idiot to think I wouldn't defend myself if he attacked. And if I had to, I would kill him then, for it wouldn't be in cold blood. I mightn't even have felt sorry for him any longer, if it had come to that.

I stood up.

Eustace's eyes rolled to the back of his head, which dropped dramatically to the side. He even shook twice to make it look like his muscles were still twitching as he 'died'.

It was a bit much, but at least it told me he was clever enough to see the benefits of playing along.

Smirking, I marched over and grabbed my bow and quiver of remaining arrows and the extra set they'd promised me in return for winning.

It wasn't till I'd gotten both quivers strapped to my back and one bow slung over each shoulder, that Clove's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Just _where_ do you think you're taking those? You're staying with us."

"Did you hear a cannon? I didn't near his cannon," Cato realized.

"Maybe he's not dead," suggested Peridan.

"He's dead," I lied quickly. "I know where I stabbed him."

"Then where's his cannon?"

"Pull out the arrow and show us the bloody point," ordered Clove, looking more suspicious than ever.

"I'll make sure he's dead," I 'amended'. Trotting over to Eustace's side, I hissed, "Now!" down at him.

He got up and started running.

Cato raised his pistol, but I saw it coming and, unslinging a bow quick as I could, fitted an arrow into the string and shot.

He had to move to avoid my arrow, causing the bullet that was supposed to hit me in the chest to sail harmlessly over Eustace's right shoulder.

Clove threw a dagger at me. I ducked and started running.

Even with his head start, Eustace wasn't very fast. I out-distanced him almost at once. I had to turn back and grab his hand, pulling him along. "Come _on_!"

As we ran, closely pursued by the Careers, bullets and daggers flying everywhere, I found myself wishing I'd asked for my own canteen instead of only their bow and arrows. I had more or less, I realized, made the same stupid mistake twice. Would I _ever_ learn to use my brain when it mattered?

We made it passed the lake, back to the fringes of the pine trees.

"Go! Go! Go! Up! Up! Up!" I shouted at Eustace.

He went very white in the face. "I can't..."

"Sure you can!" I huffed. "Climb, by gum! There's nothing to it." To show him, I grabbed onto a branch and swung myself up. "See?"

"It's too high," he protested.

"Nonsense! This is nothing."

"They're coming!" He, too, could hear them right behind us.

"Then get up here!" I sighed and grasped his wrist, pulling him up.

"Ouch!" he protested, swinging uselessly and banging the side of his body into the trunk of the tree. "Not so hard!"

"You're supposed to swing the other way."

"Well, you swung me this way, so it's _your_ fault!"

"Is not," I snapped, finally getting him up onto the branch beside me.

"Thank goodness." Eustace swallowed hard. "It's over."

" _Over_?" I stared at him in disbelief. "It's not over. We have to keep climbing."

"No way," he insisted, trembling, looking very much like he was about to be sick. "This is as far as I'm going."

"Can Cato climb?"

"I don't know."

"If you're going to stay there, you better hope he can't."

"Cato!" cried Clove, coming into view under us. "Don't waste any more bullets. We can't even see them."

"I heard their voices," he insisted. "This is where they went."

 _Don't look up, don't look up._ I was already two branches higher than where Eustace had ended up, refusing to go any further, and was thus partially hidden, but if they looked up they'd have seen a small pale-faced boy sitting in the tree for sure.

They did eventually look up, only, by sheer luck, at the wrong tree. They didn't see Eustace quivering below me.

"We don't need them," Clove said after a while.

"I'm killing them _now_ ," Cato insisted vehemently. "They made fools of us."

Just then, Peridan came out of the bushes and looked up. I knew he saw Eustace at once, and thought we were doomed, but he said nothing to his allies about it. He just stood there, letting Clove and Cato do all the talking and hunting by themselves.

"You can kill them later," Clove told Cato. "We don't _need_ the girl from seven. Not really. We'll kill her later. Eustace, too."

"What about the boy from Jill's district?" Peridan suggested, breaking his silence. "He's strong. What if we changed plans and made him our ally?"

I gulped. Edmund with the Careers... The thought frightened me badly. He would be too dangerous, if he were one of them.

" _No_ ," growled Cato. "I told you, I don't want him alive."

"The girl from District 3 has the same score," Clove pointed out. "And she wants him dead just as much as we do."

"I think she's working with the boy from ten," Peridan informed them.

"Fine, we'll try them," said Cato, lowering his pistol. "But they had better bring me Edmund Martin's head on a pike, and _fast_."

I shuddered at the way he said Edmund's full name, instead of just referring to him as the boy from District 7. He must have been beyond furious about being out-scored by him.

Suddenly I wondered, horrified, if I'd been mistaken about not being their first choice. Yes, I'd unwittingly fallen into their trap in a way they couldn't have _entirely_ foreseen, but maybe, even so, it really had been me they wanted for an ally. And not just because I could shoot, either. They wanted me because I was from District 7, the same district as the highest scoring boy in the arena. Most likely, they thought I knew him better than I actually did.

Their motives were becoming crystal clear. They'd wanted me to help them kill Edmund. Which was something they-wrongly-believed I could do that Eustace couldn't.

Once they were out of sight, I alighted back down onto Eustace's branch.

It shook under the weight of my downward leap, wobbling.

"Don't do that," panted Eustace, steadying himself.

"Seeing as we're both in the process of being hunted and replaced," I said, "feel like being partners for a while?"

He squinted at me. "Are you serious?"

"Would you be alive now if I wasn't?"

A smile-almost a _nice_ one-began forming in the corners of his mouth. "I suppose I wouldn't." His eyes locked on the bow over my right shoulder, knowing I could have shot him.

"So, _allies_?" I pressed, holding out my hand.

Eustace nodded and, wiping his hand off on the place above the hole my arrow had poked in his doublet earlier, shook on it. "Allies."


	15. Chapter 15: Edmund

My stomach growls as I finish off the last bit of food I have in my knapsack. My throat is either dry or else sore. Honestly, I don't have the foggiest idea which it is at the moment.

My food supply was nothing but a sleeve of crackers and a small wedge of hard cheese to begin with. And, truth be told, over the last two or three days in this blasted arena, it's done almost nothing to dull my hunger pains.

Really, it's just made me unbearably thirsty.

Which wouldn't be so bad if the ridiculously under-sized canteen (among the items in my knapsack) was at least filled up before it was put in the arena. But, of course, it _would_ be empty.

Thankfully, a spring located under a tree has kept me from complete dehydration.

Only, late yesterday evening, I noticed my spring was lower and somewhat muddy. Today, when I walk over to it after eating, it's completely dried out.

This is a real problem. The spring is the only source of water I've been able to find within six or seven miles of the hollow I've been sleeping in at night. I have to find water _and_ a new place to live. Great, just great.

The Gamemakers probably think this is real funny. Get the boy with an eleven closer to other tributes so he has no choice but to fight them for water. Oh, like they haven't done _that_ before! _Really original, chaps, really original... My mind is simply blown away by your new strategy for spicing up the games this year_.

As I walk with nothing in my canteen, my throat feeling like it's on fire, I try to think up uses for the other items in my knapsack.

Let me see, what do I have?

A knife that probably won't serve me well as a weapon (luckily, I have my sword) but will be good for skinning animals so I can get at the meat on them. But I have to _catch_ animals first. And, aside from running them through with my sword, I'm not sure how to go about it. I don't have any traps or lures. I _do_ have a piece of flint, though. That's likely to come in handy if I ever do find a safe place and time to light a fire. Which, I'll kind of _have_ to, if I, by some miracle, get actual meat for cooking.

I also have some rope, a white bottle with pills in it (aspirin, I think), and four sleek sticks made out of silver and glass.

I haven't the foggiest idea what the sticks are for. The silver seems mainly decorative. There are all these curvy engravings carved into it and everything. Unless the Gamemakers plan on setting a bunch of, I don't know, werewolf mutts or something on me, I highly doubt I'm going to find a use for fancy silver in this place.

There _is_ what appears to be some sort of liquid in the glass part of the sticks, but there's no way of getting them open and finding out what it is.

Aside from breaking them against a rock, of course. And, while I've been tempted, mostly out of curiosity, I haven't tried that yet.

Suddenly, I hear a scream and feel my body shudder involuntarily.

I shouldn't be surprised. This is what happens in the Hunger Games, after all. Tributes kill other tributes. Hearing their screams, well, I had better get used to it. There's no way I'm going to make it through this with my sanity intact if I don't.

But it's more the pitch of the scream that has caught me off guard. It's a cry of terror. A little girl's cry. There are only three tributes who could be making that noise. Gael, Prim, or _maybe_ Lucy.

I know it can't be Jill Pole from my own district making that horrible, scared noise. She's a year younger than Lucy, it's true, but her voice is a little deeper. And, thinking it over, I'm almost ready to rule out Lucy, too.

Because, if she was in trouble, Emeth would help her.

Unless something's happened and her District 11 ally is dead, or even just injured and unable to get to her.

The thought disturbs me. She won't make it without him. I don't care if she scored a ten; she isn't strong enough to make it on her own. Her sponsors will feed her, probably, if she gets to the point where she's starving, but that won't help her if another tribute catches her. Especially one of the Careers she abandoned. They'll pin her down and slit her throat without a second thought.

So what do I care? One less tribute in the arena, right? Not to mention the removal of somebody who scored high from the games. One step closer to winning. One step closer to home.

But I think of Peter on the roof, talking about his sister. What happens to him if she doesn't live through this?

Again, so what? If I die, my sister and parents will be sad. If Prim dies, I don't exactly expect Katniss to be doing cartwheels. Caspian's going to be shattered if Lilliandil doesn't make it. Even Cato might have a girlfriend back home in District 2, for all I know.

So what makes Lucy's death and Peter's pain unique? Absolutely nothing. Nothing whatever. There's nothing to be done.

And, still, I find myself running in the direction the scream came from. Just in case. Yes, I'm being a spineless sap, we all get it... This is pointless beyond all reason, but I'm doing it anyway.

I stop when I come across a girl tribute trapped in a net.

Not Lucy, I find myself thinking, it's not her.

I'm right. It's _not_ her.

It's Prim.

She's terrified. The net must have been set up by another tribute. Most likely a Career. And she's completely trapped, unable to get out of it. I suppose I can't blame her for screaming with sickly surprise when the net dropped on her. The thing is thick and heavy. And she seems only to be getting herself more tangled in it with every passing second.

I run towards her.

Her eyes widen and tears spill out of them when she sees me coming.

At first I'm confused, then it dawns on me that she thinks it's _my_ net. That I've come to kill her.

Well, I haven't. I don't want to kill her. She's just a little girl. I'll let somebody else with a stronger stomach take care of that later on in the game. But, in the meantime, I want that net.

If I can get her out of it quickly, not only will she be free, but I'll also have a new useful tool. I could catch animals in it at best. Use it to hoist my supplies into a tree for hiding purposes at worst. Not bad. Not bad at all.

I put my finger to my lips as I get closer to try and calm her down. If her screaming has brought me here, it could bring anyone else along within moments. We have to be quick, and-if possible-silent.

Her lower lip trembles, but she stops crying.

I bend down and do my best to untangle her from the net. Twice, I curse under my breath. If only Prim had been a bit more still! Then this would be so much easier. I don't want to have to cut it to get her out and risk ruining it. But if I can't get close to a breakthrough within the next half-minute, I might just have to.

It takes almost two minutes (more than I can really spare), but I do eventually manage to get her out without doing any irreversible damage to the net.

She stands up shakily, gawking at me.

"Go on," I say, gesturing off in a random direction with my chin. "Get!" I raise my voice and, standing up, net in hand, kick dirt at her.

She does take a few steps in the direction I tried to shoo her off to, but she doesn't go far. She is still looking very intently at me. There's almost, I daresay, an awestruck expression on her face.

I really wish she wouldn't stare at me like that. It's unnerving, for one. For another, she's wasting time.

Gael appears, jumping out from behind the trunk of a nearby tree, holding up what looks like a bread knife. She's ready to defend Prim. It just took her a while to get here.

They should never have separated, whatever they were up to. That was their first mistake.

Prim shakes her head at her ally, and Gael seems to understand. She doesn't come any closer, just stays where she is.

" _Go_ ," I remind her gruffly.

She takes off, running to where Gael is standing, but she stops and looks over her shoulder at me again when she's halfway there. She presses the three middle fingers on her left hand to her lips and holds them out to me, as if that's supposed to mean something. Then she's running again.

She takes Gael's hand. I blink, and she's gone. The girls have vanished amongst the trees. Good. Now it's my turn to get out of here. I'm dashed fortunate the tribute responsible for the net hasn't shown yet.

I fold the net as best I can, mostly just rolling it like a giant bedroll with holes, tuck it under my armpit, and start running in the opposite direction.

My throat burns. I'm still painfully thirsty, but that will have to wait. What's important now is getting away with the net.

I hear cursing (sounds like Cato) coming from the place I'm running from. He knows his net has been stolen by another tribute. And that whoever was caught in it has escaped, most likely unscathed.

Thankfully, I'm long out of sight. He won't know it's me. Even if he suspects, he won't know for sure.

My face feels like it's on fire. I know I should probably go further still, but I need to rest. I may blackout if I don't get a drink of water soon. Perhaps finding water was a bigger priority than getting the net after all.

A drop of something cold and wet lands on the back of my neck. Another hits my nose.

Rain?

Thunder crackles, not far off, but I don't care. I'm thrilled. Now I have my net _and_ water. The rain is falling so thick I can barely seen through it. I stuff my net under a tree, along with my knapsack. Then I take out the canteen, open it, and hold it out to catch the rain.

The storm doesn't last long. The thunder and lightning never even reaches where I'm at. My canteen is only half full when the drops are no longer falling from the arena sky. All the same, I'm almost giddy with relief. If someone was with me now, I nearly feel like I would want to hug them. Which is a feeling I don't often have; I've never really been one for excessive displays of affection.

I've bought myself some extra time (not much, but hopefully enough) to find a new home and water-source without losing consciousness on the way. My confidence is renewed. I didn't get an eleven for nothing. I can win this thing. I can survive this.

The air in the arena has felt wonderful since the brief rainstorm. Not too hot, not too cold. It's comfortable, like a summer breeze back home. Because of all the pine, it even _smells_ like District 7.

If I felt safer, less paranoid, I could close my eyes and pretend that's where I am. Pretend that I'm only a few miles off from my house. That when I open them I can just stroll down a familiar path, one I've known since I was two, till I come to the red brick porch. In my mind I can even see it as it was when I was very, very small, before it got chipped.

But I won't let those thoughts engulf me. They can only bring me down. I can't be homesick now. If I wanted to cry, I should have cried when it was raining. That way the viewers wouldn't know how secretly lonely I feel. I can't risk letting my sponsors see me as weak.

Surely I have sponsors, right? With my eleven, I know must. Not even Johanna could blow what my high score set in motion.

Then again, it's Johanna who is in charge of making sure the gifts from my sponsors get through to me, and so far I haven't gotten a blasted thing. Not, really, that aside from water, I've been in any dire need yet.

Still, a free meal falling from the sky would be kind of nice. After all, a meal today will be much cheaper than a meal a few days from now. The amount of food your money can get to a tribute dwindles as the days go by. What would buy me a filet mignon this evening won't get me a bloody potato chip in a week.

But, _no_. No steak for my luncheon-or supper. I have to catch something with my bare hands (or the net I've stolen) before they'll even bother sending a half-jar of applesauce. Apparently, Edmund Martin's just not good enough for parachute food.

But if I can't have filet mignon, can't they at least send me a tent? I don't mean to whine, but I'm starting to feel rather like a homeless bum out here.

I come to a grassy clearing and stop at the edge of the circular grove before going out there. There might be another tribute nearby and I don't want any trouble right now. I just want to find a comfortable place with water nearby so I can rest and work on rigging my net somewhere.

No tribute comes into view, so I begin to edge out, sword unsheathed and raised.

Towards the end of the clearing, on the far-side, there's a big maple tree. There, I finally catch sight of another living person. A pair of eyes glinting down at me.

At first, I think they belong to the owl-eyed boy tribute from District 12, but they're not nearly big enough and they're the wrong colour for him.

Two other things glint as well: distinctive locks of red hair, and the tip of an arrow.

I am looking up at the fox-faced girl from District 5, the one who gave me the idea of climbing over the hedge maze. I'm honestly very surprised to see her here, having believed she'd gone the other way.

Then it hits me. She probably found a lake in the opposite direction but didn't linger long. If she had a canteen, she likely filled it to the brim and came back this way before the Careers turned up, as I know they must have. She didn't have to worry about me trying to hunt her straight off, if I'd wanted to, because here I'd believed she wasn't in the area.

Clever, clever girl.

"I say," I call up to her, keeping my sword up, but cupping my left hand around my mouth, "you aren't planing on shooting me, are you?"

A sly smile spreads across her half-hidden face, the non-visible part of it hidden behind red hair, twigs, and branches. "Thinking about it," she admits. "But not if you're not planning on coming up here with that sword."

"Don't feel like climbing," I say.

"You're wet," she comments.

"It was raining."

"Uh-huh."

"So," I say, grinning, "how's everything been with you?"

"Oh, well, can't complain." Her arrow is still pointed at me (in case I change my mind and start climbing, I suppose), but she doesn't pull her arm back to release it. Her fingers, unless the sun in my eyes is confusing me, even look a bit more relaxed than they did a second ago.

"Nice bow, where did you get it?"

"Stole it off the girl from your district, actually."

"You took Jill's bow?" I don't know whether I should be impressed at her cunning or angry that she robbed someone from my district. Being impressed is winning out at the moment, though.

"She had two," she says coolly. "I'm not stupid enough to steal a tribute's only weapon and have them come after me."

So Jill got the other bow off the Careers. Well, good for her! "Does she know you took it?"

"She knows _somebody_ took it." She tightens her grip on the bow pointedly. "And you're not going to say anything."

"Apparently, I wouldn't dream of it," I say dryly, my voice tinged with sarcasm, rolling my eyes.

"Nice net," she says next, looking down at what I've got tucked under my arm. "Who'd you steal it from?"

"Cato, I think." I shrug.

"Awesome," she laughs sardonically.

"You think he'll slit my throat by nightfall," I realize, chuckling darkly.

"I didn't say that."

"Yeah, but you thought it."

"Well, he already underestimated you once, clearly."

"Don't worry about me," I say. "After all, those Careers could probably kill _you_ without trying."

Her sly smile deepens and one eye twitches, almost into a wink. "Oh, believe me, they'll have to try."

And, oddly enough, I find that I believe her. Even, in a weird sort of way, like her.

I see a lot of myself (and Johanna) in her. It's hard to explain, but it's there. It's in her face, her smile, the way she sits fearlessly up in that tree... But most of all it's in the way she speaks and thinks. The kinship of the bitterly sardonic misfits. Unexplainable to those unlike us, unmistakeable to those who fall into our category.

The sad thing is that, in another life, we could have been friends, Foxface and me. Especially as District 5 is so close to District 7. (Which must be how she can climb trees as well as myself, Johanna, Jill, or anyone else from our district.)

All this time, we've been so near each other that, if Panem wasn't separated by districts, I could have probably walked from my house to hers on a regular basis. Perhaps, if seven and five were still the Lantern Waste and Beaversdam, if there were no Peacekeepers patrolling the district limits, we would have known each other. As opposed to being perfect strangers, ready to kill one another at a moment's notice if need be.

"Well, see you round," I say, backing slowly towards the trees, my sword raised in warning. I won't let her change her mind and shoot me in the back. She's smart, but I'm not an idiot, either. All I ask is that she acknowledges this and we remain at a temporary impasse.

"You won't see me."

"What?"

"Trust me, if we cross paths again, you won't see me."

"Right. Whatever." I'm almost out of her range now. Soon I'll have to stop talking because shouting for her to hear me could betray our current location to other tributes.

An hour slowly passes me by. My feet ache, then throb. I think I will be unable to go a step further, when I come to a stream.

The stream seems to run from where I've come across it, all the way down to a grove of fir trees that, if I'm not mistaken, can't be more than a mile or two inward from where the pine forest begins.

I ran this way on my first day here, without ever coming by this stream. That means it's easy to miss. The Careers, if-well, _when_ -they come this way in their hunt for me, might miss it. And if they don't find it, they can't guard it, can't block myself or anyone else from coming here to drink.

Dropping down to my knees, I splash my flushed face with water. I fill up my canteen and drink as much as I think my stomach will hold.

Sword out, I scour the land down by the fir trees. I find no hollows waiting for me to move in, but I do catch a glimpse of Jill. She's found the stream, too. She seems to have an ally with her, but my view is blocked and I don't see who it is. I try to think of who she might possibly take on as an ally, and come up with nothing. My hope, however, is that it's not a Career. I really don't want them knowing about this stream.

Nothing else for it, I go back the way I came.

It's uphill, but since I'm following the stream and my canteen is full, it doesn't matter so much. My feet still hurt a little, but I don't let that stop me.

In fact, once I'm sure I am far enough from where I saw Jill and the other tribute, whoever it was, I take off my boots, store them in the net under my armpit, and walk bare-footed, wading through the water the rest of the way.

It feels wonderful. "Ahh," I let out, exhaling deeply.

There might be anything in this water. Killer mutt fish, perhaps. Or maybe genetically engineered water-plants designed to wrap around my ankles like tangles of vines and pull me under.

A chilling thought indeed. I brush it away. I won't let my fear show, and I certainly don't plan to let it stop me from enjoying this. As long as I'm prepared, as long as I don't let my guard down completely, I'll be all right.

Eventually, I have to climb out of the stream, because it comes to an end. I climb out and, even though the dry dirt I step on sticks to the soles of my feet, I put my socks and boots back on.

Where am I going to live? It's getting later, and I've got nothing.

That's when I see it.

A cave.

Like the stream I was just wading in, it's easy to miss. Two over-grown willows sort of block the entrance. It's like having a sheer curtain for a front door.

I explore the cave carefully, delighted to find no signs of any other tribute living there or even having discovered it before me.

Now I can think of what to do with my net, since my water and shelter problem is resolved at last.

Once I've come up with a plan, I decide I have to go through with it at once or miss what's left of the daylight. So I walk till I come to a big oak tree within spitting-distance of the stream. It's distinctive, since it's the only oak anywhere near the water. The rest are, of course, mostly fir.

It's quite dark when I finally finish (I can hear crickets going crazy), but I manage to rig a net so that if an animal walks over it, they'll be caught inside and pulled up into the oak tree.

A tribute could get caught in it, too, I find myself thinking as I walk away, heading back to my cave.

But, to be honest, I don't _want_ to catch a tribute in there. I'd _much_ rather catch something I can eat.


	16. Chapter 16: Jill

"Did you get any food?" asked Eustace, popping up from behind a bush as I came into view.

If it had been anyone else hiding there, I would have jumped out of my skin when they showed themselves; my lovely ally, Eustace Scrubb, however, was about as good at concealing himself as a giant standing in the middle of a road waving semaphore flags. Rather odd, when you think about it, considering he was so small-boned.

Even though I didn't tell him so, I'd actually known he was there a full two minutes before he announced his presence.

It was times like those that I really had to remind myself he knew about plants and would at least be able to keep us from eating anything poisonous, if nothing else; that he wasn't truly a lousy ally.

He _meant_ , I knew, to be supportive.

Well, most of the time he did, anyway. We hadn't been allied even a full day before I discovered he took on horrid sulky spells, which could be quite aggravating, depending on the degree to which he took them and the moment he chose to start.

Unfortunately, he had very bad timing.

Eustace was sullen when he was hungry (and these _were_ the Hunger Games); he was sullen when he was tired (we were always busy with something, always worn-out, for how else could we keep alive?); he was sullen when he was woken up in the morning; and he was _unbearably_ obstinate, to my great frustration, when I'd told him, the day before, after dark, that we should get some sleep.

He accused me of being bossy and said I had no right to tell him when-or where-to sleep.

But he _did_ comply with my request that he sleep sitting up with his back against mine so that we could be a bit warmer. Even he could see the benefit of that.

He'd still whined that he was cold and that he didn't like sleeping in the tree I picked out (or in _any_ tree, for that matter), but I was sleepy enough that my mind was able to tune him out as I drifted off into deep slumber.

"I didn't catch anything yet," I admitted, answering his question, noting that he was glancing over my shoulder excitedly, as if he had been expecting me to return dragging a basket full of fruit behind me.

"Ninny," he muttered, pouting.

I lowered my eyebrows crossly, flinging my bow to the ground. "I don't see _you_ out hunting!"

"Maybe I would be," Eustace shot back, "if you hadn't lost the other bow."

"I didn't lose it!" I stamped my foot. "It was _stolen_." And, sadly, I didn't know by whom.

He folded his arms across his chest, snorting disdainfully.

"Besides," I added, "it's not like you could shoot an arrow anyway."

"I _could_ ," he insisted. Except, his face was beet-red and there was this flash of insecurity that flickered into his expression; even he knew, deep down, that he was no good at that sort of thing.

"Did you find any berries?" That was what he was supposed to be doing in the bushes in the first place. Honestly, I wasn't sure he remembered.

He shook his head. "There's two kinds upstream, but both varieties are poisonous."

"Are you sure, Scrubb?"

He nodded. "I'm sure, Pole."

(For some reason, we quickly fell into the habit of calling each other mostly by our surnames. I thought, at the time, it was our little way of distancing ourselves from each other-so we could both keep fresh in our minds that we were allies, not chums.)

Something rustled in the bush to the left of the one Eustace had come out of.

"What is it?" Eustace's eyebrows arched simultaneously with surprise.

A furry white-and-gray rabbit hopped out, twitching its nose at us.

By gum, it was cute! I didn't want to kill it. The poor little thing! But, alas, where it lacked length, it was awful thick to make up for it. It was clearly a well-fed rabbit. The creature was getting more nourishment than Eustace and I were at the time-that was for sure.

There was good meat on the thing. And, if we wanted to keep alive, I knew what I had to do.

I'm sorry, I thought, hastily fitting an arrow into my bow-string and letting it fly.

It struck the rabbit in the neck. Blood dripped out and stained the white fur that covered its furry chest crimson.

Eustace retched and, bending over, one hand pressed to his belly, dry-heaved. If there had been anything in his stomach, I believe he would have thrown it up. I couldn't blame him; I jolly nearly felt like taking sick myself.

But I knew I couldn't afford to be sick, not then. This was our chance at a meal. Moreover, I had to get used to it. After all, one rabbit between two people... We'd make out all right for the one meal, but there wouldn't be much in the way of leftovers. So I would have to hunt again. I would have to get used to seeing my arrows piercing through animal skins instead of inanimate training targets.

"Let me see your pocketknife," I said.

"What? Why?"

"How else do you expect me to skin it?" I knew, sure as anything, Eustace wouldn't be able to do it.

Realizing that it meant _I_ would be in charge of getting the meat off of the creature, not him, he stopped arguing and handed the switchblade knife over.

I skinned and bled the rabbit as best as I could. Eustace's face turned and remained, for a good long while, a queer sour-apple green. He couldn't look at the dead rabbit for too long.

Looking away from it, he told me he preferred dead bugs to dead mammals. To which I replied that bugs sounded worse to me; the dead rabbit would serve a purpose, but a teensy, dirty, swashed bug seemed useless and gross.

"Bugs look great pinned up on walls, and you can catalog them," he said.

I made a face. "Yuck, I wouldn't like even to _touch_ a dead bug, much less _catalog_ it!"

"Some bugs are edible."

"You eat bugs?"

Eustace scowled. "Oh, Lor! I didn't say _that_. As it happens, back home, I'm a vegetarian. Some savages, in jungle tribes and that sort of rot... _They_ eat bugs all the time."

"Good to know." I wrinkled my nose insincerely. What had I gotten myself into, being allies with a bug-hunter? It really was too bad he couldn't hunt slightly bigger game.

"Ah!" he screamed. "Something's got me! Oh, oh! Help, help!"

I let the dead rabbit alone for the moment and whipped my head round, snatching up my bow and fitting an arrow into the string, ready for anything.

Or so I thought.

Laughter shook my shoulders. Something _had_ indeed gotten Eustace, but it wasn't a rival tribute come to rob us of our forthcoming rabbit-meat meal; it was a squirrel.

Only a plain, ordinary, jittery gray squirrel.

The mad thing had jumped, as if in play, from a nearby tree, onto Eustace's back. And it was now scampering up and down the back of my ally's doublet, making all these funny squeaking sounds.

Goodbye Mr. Squirrel, I thought grimly, letting the arrow fly, shooting the squirrel off of Eustace's back.

Eustace's eyes widened; he was practically hyperventilating. "Pole! Why did you shoot at me?"

"I didn't shoot at you, stupid!" I stamped my foot. " _Look_ , why don't you!"

He looked over his shoulder at the squirrel lying on the ground with my arrow through its neck.

"Dessert," I announced, shrugging.

"It felt bigger," said Eustace. "When it was on me."

"Sure."

"It _did_!" he insisted defensively. "It really did!"

"Is there any chance you can help me skin _this_ one?"

He turned green again and folded his arms across his chest.

"That would be a no," I sighed, bending over and picking up the squirrel corpse to prepare alongside the rabbit.

"If we're going to risk a fire, we should do it as soon as those animals are bled," Eustace suggested, glancing up at the sky. "We wouldn't want to do it too near dark."

" _Can_ you light a fire?" I asked hopefully.

"Of course I can!" he huffed, going round gathering wood.

"Be careful not to put anything that gives off a lot of smoke in there," I blurted, watching him out of the corner of my eye.

"What do you think I am," he huffed, "an idiot?"

I wasn't sure if the question was wholly rhetorical or not, the way he said it, in an up-talker sort of tone that sounded almost Capitol but not quite (not surprising, since the Capitol was always very friendly with District 1; if their accent was going to slip into one of the districts, 1 or 2 would be first in line), so I didn't say anything.

"Ouch!" he swore.

I looked again, seeing that he had his thumb in his mouth.

"Splinter," he admitted grudgingly.

Rolling my eyes, I shook my head; and he went back to trying to rub sticks together over a small wood pile.

We were so nervous about being spotted that we barely let the fire rise higher than a bunch of hot embers. I wondered aloud if raw meat was as nasty as I'd always heard. Eustace, though I was sure he didn't know anything about it from experience, stated that raw meat could kill like poison, and I decided to believe him.

It took _so_ long to cook the meat on the small fire, and we both lost our tempers so many times that I thought for sure our alliance was going to come to an end by the next round of cold-spoken angry words, but for some reason we did all right, making it up again after quarreling. And, indeed, the finally cooked meat had a wonderful effect on us.

Rabbit and squirrel wasn't exactly what either of us were longing for. I was aching for some beef stew; Eustace spoke of plums with this far off look in his eyes. But food was still food, and we ate it like we had never eaten a bite before in our lives. Eustace made faces at his portion, of course, as I fully expected, yet he didn't leave behind a single bite.

After the meal, I was surprised to learn that Eustace had found something after all. Not berries, he was telling the truth when he mentioned finding only poison ones, but he had gotten some mint leaves to chew, which he claimed would do wonders for our breaths after that 'foul meat'.

I laughed. "You went to one of those odd, progressive schools with awards for best hygiene, didn't you?"

He flushed red. "Well!"

"You won," I noted, giggling.

"Two years running."

I laughed harder. "Do you miss it?"

"Hygiene? You bet!"

"No," I scoffed. "Not _that_. School."

"A little," he said. "You?"

"No," I told him, my eyes downcast. "Not much."

"Why," he asked, "didn't you like it?"

" _Like_ it?" I burst out. "Not even a little! I was bullied and teased jolly nearly every single day."

"You don't put up with it one bit when _I_ pick on you," he pointed out. "Why didn't you just talk back to them, like you do to me?"

"I don't know." It was different, somehow; I couldn't explain it. "Weren't there any bullies at your school?"

"Sure." He grimaced. "They left me alone, though."

"You were on their side," I realized.

"Not always," he said quietly, not quite meeting my eyes. "Just, you know, some of the time." Clearly, he didn't mind the thought that all of Panem might be hearing us, if our location was where the cameras were currently focused.

That made sense, because, if he lived through this, he wouldn't have to go back to school. It would be the easiest thing in the world to just turn his nose up at those old bullies and laugh and laugh. He wouldn't have to side with them for protection ever again.

"So, do you think we should go over who's allied with whom?" I asked, changing the subject. "At least, what we know." It would make things easier, figuring out who could be temporarily trusted if we had an unfortunate run-in with another tribute and who neither of us should look at twice under any circumstances.

"Well, Clove and Cato and Peridan," said Eustace. "Obviously."

"And they want to get the boy from 10 and the girl from 3 to help them," I added.

"That's Andrew and Jadis."

"What do we know about them?"

"Jadis has the highest score. Andrew's just a tag-along slave she'll dispose of when she sees fit."

"Is he a good fighter?"

"Not that I know of."

"But he had a five," I reminded him. "That's still higher than your score."

Eustace scowled.

"I didn't mean it like that, only..."

"I _know_ ," he snapped, waving it off crossly; "moving on, if you please..."

"Lucy is with Emeth; Gael is with Primrose."

"Right. The girl from 5, do you know if she's working alone or with the tribute from her district?"

"Alone, I think," I said. "Both of them."

Eustace popped another mint leaf in his mouth. "Do you think either of them are likely to join an alliance?"

"The girl, most likely not. The boy, who knows?"

His mouth curled thoughtfully. "Is Edmund likely to team up with anyone, do you know?"

I didn't, not really. "I don't know him as well as you might think."

"Cato would have been angry if you told him that. You know, if you had killed me and joined their alliance."

"Mmm," I agreed, shuddering.

Eustace opened his mouth to add something, but we heard footsteps and his jaw snapped shut.

We both jumped to our feet and ran to hide in the bushes.

A tribute was running by. All we could see of her at first was her long blonde hair flying out behind her.

"It's the girl from District 6," Eustace whispered to me.

"Thh..." I hissed at him, meaning 'shh' of course ('s' is actually the letter most likely to be over-heard in a whisper).

"Have you got a lisp?"

 _Oh, bother!_ I clamped my hand over his mouth. Why couldn't he just be an extra pair of eyes when I needed him to be silent?

From the opposite direction, a boy tribute came into view. Obviously he wasn't tall or thick enough for Cato, Edmund, or Peridan, so I knew the odds were in our favor as far as that went.

It turned out to be Ash, the boy from the same district as the running girl, Lilliandil.

As he was one of the few tributes with a score lower than Eustace's, I wasn't afraid of him. But it couldn't have been him Lilliandil was running from. For one thing, she'd been looking over her shoulder. Secondly, if she and Ash fought, she had a slightly better chance of winning than he did. There would have been no reason for her to run frantically through the forest to escape confrontation with _him_.

"The girl from District 8 is coming after me!" cried Lilliandil warningly, trying to leap over a high tree-root and duck below a bramble at the same time. Unfortunately, she didn't succeed and the back of her hair was caught, tangled hopelessly in the bramble.

Ash pulled out a knife so small it made Eustace's pocketknife look like a sword in comparison and rushed forward.

Lilliandil let out an uncertain yelp.

He grabbed the back of her hair and cut her free as quickly as he could, his fingers fumbling badly as they pulled and sawed at the girl's golden locks. "We'll live longer with two of us," he panted breathlessly. His spectacles had fallen down to the bridge of his nose and he lifted his free hand to push them back up.

She nodded shakily. "I suppose you just proved that." She grabbed his trembling wrist as it came back down. "Come on. We might lose her if we go this way."

There was another alliance, just made: Lilliandil and Ash.

I started to let go of Eustace's mouth, still a little worried he would say something as Cecilia from District 8 came into view, blowing our cover. Thankfully, he didn't, and she came and went, never even knowing we were there. And, I noticed, the way she went, thinking she was going to catch Lilliandil, wasn't the way the District 6 tributes had actually gone.

They, too, were safe for the time being.


	17. Chapter 17: Edmund

I wake up stiff, sore, and bloody starving on the floor of my cave. I stretch my aching muscles as best I can and sit up, groaning.

I reach for my sword and make sure it's strapped securely to my side.

There's only one thing to be done. I have to go to the oak where I set up that net and see what I've caught. The thought that it's still empty, that nothing has wandered by and been hoisted up, is a dreary one I won't let my mind think about too intently. There must be something in my net-there _must_ be!

At least, though, no matter what, I can count on a good drink of water. My canteen is still more than half-full, and when it runs out, I can just bring it down to the stream for more.

This can't last, and I know it. The Gamemakers will figure out that things are moving too slowly. They'll dry out the stream (as they did the spring) or find some other way to make me seek out the lake instead. But it hasn't happened yet. And, for now, I can enjoy my seemingly endless water-supply.

I'm nearly within sight of the oak tree when I hear the absolute _last_ thing I want to hear. Career voices.

Cato and Clove are nearby. Peridan is probably somewhere about, too, but he talks much less than his two allies, and I can't hear him. So I'm not entirely sure he's there.

They're definitely at the oak. Which means they're close to the stream. Which means, much to my dismay, they know the stream exists. Perhaps they won't guard it, as I've been fearing they would if they ever stumbled upon it. But something's up. There has to be a reason for their excited tones and taunting cries.

I must have caught something good in my net, I think, furiously angry that they're going to get what I earned.

It's not my fault Cato was too dumb to think of rigging the net to a tree. Or that the only thing he ever caught in it was a scared twelve year old girl.

Another thought dawns on me, making my jaw muscles clench with rage. Cato is going to get his net back, and there is nothing I can do about it! He'll get the net _and_ whatever I caught.

Well, at least, I can go see what it is.

But I have to be careful not to let myself get seen. To watch them in perfect silence. My life won't last long if I have three Careers come at me at once. Isn't that why I wouldn't try to help Lasaraleen when she needed me?

All the same, that memory, along with filling me with guilt, also reassures me that the Careers can be stalked, spied on, without ever knowing about it. They still don't know I was there when they killed Lasaraleen.

Golly, come to think of it, they might not even know I took the net.

Yes, Cato suspects. Of course he does. But where's his proof? He has none. Not unless he spots me coming this way, to see for myself what's happening, and, putting two and two together, realizes I'm the one who made this trap.

It really is quite horrible that _my_ hard work is feeding the Careers. Careers who already have more food than any of us. If _Foxface_ robbed me of my catch, I wouldn't feel as badly about it. The only person I'd be angry with would be myself.

Losing food to a tribute more clever than I am, on account of being out-smarted, would be one thing. Losing food to the Careers, purely on account of being out-numbered, is enough to make my blood boil.

Once I'm fully in sight of them, I station myself in a small space under a fir tree with a bush growing all the way around it. I can easily squat behind the bush while pressing my back to the lowest part of the tree.

My heartbeat goes so fast it's almost like this thumping _buzz_ -in my chest, in my ears, in my throat-ringing through all of me.

The Careers are not alone. There are two other tributes with them now. The boy from District 10, standing next to Peridan, whispering something to him. And the scary girl from District 3.

She's the one I forgot, watching the night sky, wondering who still alive and out for blood in the arena.

I know it sounds mad, but truth be told I would much rather meet Cato, even if I was unarmed and bloody blindfolded, in a dark alley, than have to deal with _her_. I'll admit it, she terrifies me beyond all reason. Because her face is so beautiful, because her eyes are so cold, because her lips are the colour of blood and cherries. All of these scare me to no end. And, of course, she wants me dead. I'm the only other tribute with the same score as her-how can she _not_?

But the appearance of the girl from District 3, the blood-curdling knowledge that she's working with the Careers, is not the worst shock I get.

It is what's in the net that shakes me to the core.

I've caught something all right, but it's not an animal. It is, no doubt about it, a tribute. A fairly large tribute, at that. He's hunched up in my net, in that oak tree, his knees pressed deeply into his chest. Unlike poor tangled Prim, he's much too big to fit in it lying straight down.

His skin is dark and his face is unmistakable. I have caught the tribute from District 11. I have caught Lucy's ally and only chance.

I have caught Emeth.

 _Lucy_ , I think, my teeth aching from being ground together too hard, where's Lucy?

But I don't see her. She's not here, apparently.

One thing that baffles me is how Emeth isn't even really trying to get out. He isn't tearing at the net (as I would in his place) or thrashing about. Not that thrashing would do much good. That would only entangle him more, and perhaps he knows it. All the same, shouldn't he be doing _something_? Why is he so _still_?

Then it happens. All at once.

Clove smirks and throws a dagger up at Emeth. I can tell he wants to move, to dodge the blade, but for some reason he doesn't- _can't_ , though I don't know why.

The dagger embeds itself in his neck. Blood pours out, running down from his throat to his shirt collar.

Lucy finally makes her appearance, as if she's just magically materialized amongst the Careers who hate her and have just murdered her ally, rushing out, screaming, "No!"

On her back is the backpack Emeth took from the grounds near the cornucopia. In her hand, she clutches tightly the hilt of what I gather is her best weapon at the moment: the dagger Clove threw at her on the first day.

They're going to turn on her next, I know. I shouldn't interfere, but all I can think about is how I can possibly get her out of this. Emeth's cannon hasn't gone off yet, which must be why Lucy hasn't run off, even with the eyes of the Careers and their new allies all turning on her simultaneously. But there's no way he has survived. If he's not dead yet, he soon will be. Nothing in all of Panem can do him any good now. It's possible that the Gamemakers are expecting Lucy to be killed off momentarily, too, and are waiting till they can blast both cannons, one after the other.

What can I do? What can I do? If she dies now, it will be as much my fault as it would have been if she'd died when I pushed her to the ground at the cornucopia on our first day in the arena. Because my trap, my lure, is responsible for taking out her ally.

Yes, it was Clove's dagger that went into his neck. Cato's stolen net that trapped him. But it was _I_ who stole the net, who rigged it. Emeth might as well be counted as _my_ kill, not theirs.

After all, if I'd gotten here sooner, before the Careers, I could have saved him, couldn't I? Just as I did Prim.

No, that's nonsense, I wouldn't have been stupid enough to let out a-possibly armed-tribute who'd scored a ten, would I? Even for Lucy's sake?

Of course I wouldn't have, I think, what do I care about Lucy?

The surprised look on her face when I put my dressing-gown over her shoulders that night I couldn't sleep and was spying on the mentors springs up into the front of my mind.

This is exactly why I wanted her dead. Just not killed in front of me, within my range of vision. If she was dead, and I didn't know who killed her, I might have been all right. One less thing to worry about. Once she was dead, nothing more could hurt her. I wouldn't be wondering if her ally was taking care of her. My ears wouldn't have pricked up every time I heard a scream that might have belonged to her. That would have been so much easier than this.

Because, now, I can't move. Not without giving myself away, I can't. I'm going to have to stay here and watch her die.

It feels like years since Clove's dagger took out Emeth. Really, it has not even been a full minute yet. This is all happening so quickly, my mind is racing so fast it's making me dizzy.

Buzzing fills the air. But it isn't my beating heart this time. It's a different, more metallic, buzzing.

And the Careers can hear it, too.

Clove screams. Cato's eyes widen. The boy from District 10 is going on and on about how selfish everyone is, not trying to protect him, while frantically flapping his arms up and down and sobbing.

As for the girl from District 3, she says nothing. Doesn't even bat an eye. She's not afraid, but by the expression on her face, she clearly registers that whatever it is that has startled her allies could, theoretically, kill her.

Tracker jackers. There is a big, blasted tracker jacker nest in my oak tree.

By sheer luck, I missed colliding with the thing and facing a horribly painful, mind-altering death while setting up my net. I didn't realize the nest was there (if I had, I would have never used _that_ tree).

And that explains everything, really. The boy from District 10's terror. Why Emeth wouldn't move. _Everything_.

The momentum from Clove's flung dagger must have made the net sway, beyond Emeth's control, and, likely just as the blade was piercing his throat, flung his dying, bunched up body full force into the tracker jacker nest.

This is _not_ good.

Emeth's cannon finally goes off. Lucy's face goes white as a sheet. Clove and the girl from District 3 are already running as fast as humanly possible away from the angry tracker jackers. The boy from District 10 is a few feet behind them.

Cato gives Lucy the cruelest look imaginable, and, before running off to join the others, shoves her back against the tree, leaving her to fend for herself against the tracker jackers.

No, I think darkly, leaving her to _die_.

Now it's Lucy who's screaming. She's screaming so much that I'm surprised she hasn't fainted from lack of air, collapsed on the arena ground.

Can I somehow get in there and pull her away from the tracker jackers?

 _What_? What am I thinking? Like I'm going throw myself in the way of those horrible buzzing mutts and get myself killed as likely as not in a vain attempt to help out some girl from District 1! What kind of sentimental moron would do a thing like that? Of course I'm not going to.

But the message of my resolve to be as heartless as Cato, to leave Lucy to her death, hasn't reached from my brain to my feet yet. Or my arms. Or my elbows. Because I'm crawling to her now.

She can't see me, but I'm coming.

I'm coming, Lucy, hang on. I don't know what I'm going to do when I reach you, but I'll get you out of this. I'll figure that part out when I get there. Just hold on. Stop screaming. I can't take it anymore! Please, stop streaming...

Well, I _have_ to save her, don't I? It's my fault Emeth can't. I've done this to her.

Lucy is running. She is running to try and out-distance the peeved tracker jackers. By the sheer volume of her continued screams, now accompanied by loud, pitiful whimpers, I know she must have at least gotten a couple of stings from them already.

She only makes it as far as the stream. Not far at all. The tracker jackers are still after her. Sobbing, she teeters on the edge of the bank. Then she falls in, still crying and screaming.

I guess the tracker jackers don't like water too much, because they finally stop trying to swarm her and fly off in a buzzing gray cloud.

The next thing I know, I'm jumping in after her.

In no time at all, I've found her, gotten my arm around her waist, and pulled her up to the surface.

She's thrashing and shoving, trying to get away from me. I know this must be uncomfortable, even down-right terrifying for her, but I don't let go. I can't. Her wet backpack will weigh her down and she'll sink right to the bottom like a stone.

That's the real problem with tracker jackers. They're sort of like bees, or wasps, or maybe hornets, but the effects of their stings are much worse than any of those.

Well, of course they are-they're mutts created by the Capitol, after all.

Tracker jacker stings hurt, I've been told, so much that the pain alone is often enough to send a particularly weak human body into fatal shock. And if the pain doesn't get them, the hallucinations will. I don't even know for sure if Lucy, poor thing, knows she's being rescued. In her mind, she might think I'm any number of frightening creatures, really. And it's no wonder she wants to get away from me.

Being stung by tracker jackers, in addition to witnessing her ally killed, must doing horrible things to her mind. If she isn't entirely mad yet, I'm certain she soon will be.

Perhaps I could spare her that and let go of her, like she wants. I could even push her head down and drown her purposefully. Then she wouldn't have to go through this. It would be a mercy, a kindness.

But I can't make myself do it.

For the first time it occurs to me that all the cameras must be on us. Everybody in Panem has to be watching this. What else could possibly be happening in the arena that would out-stage this?

So it's not only me and my conscience alone. It's the whole world looking on, wondering what I'm going to do. Am I going to kill her? Pull her out of this stream? Is _she_ , in a fit of madness, going to try to kill _me_?

What is Peter thinking right now? Is he crying for his sister's pain? From what I know about him, he seems to be the kind of chap who gets misty-eyed if his precious baby sister gets so much as a bad cold or a splinter in her finger. Seeing _this_ must be tearing him up inside. And I know he must hate me, for killing Emeth.

Finally, I get myself and a wild, biting, sobbing, thrashing, completely insane Lucy, out of the stream.

The only decent thing I can do is bring her to my cave. I'm worried that the Careers will eventually find the cave, and sooner than I originally expected. After all, they know about the stream now. But there's nowhere else. And since they don't know about it, or that I live there, yet, that's where I bring Lucy.

I place her down, on her side, and unstrap her backpack from her. The thing must be waterproof, because wet as it is on the outside, the inside is barely even damp.

Thank goodness she lost her dagger in the stream the moment she fell in. I'll go back and retrieve it later, if I can. For now, I'm just glad she hasn't got it. She would be coming at me with it, I have no doubt.

"Shh..." I whisper, not knowing what else to say. "It's all right." Of course it's _not_ all right. I've got nothing to eat, she just saw her ally killed, _nothing's_ all right!

For about an hour, she's unreachable. She cries and cries and when her eyes open they don't even seem to take in my presence. She's stopped trying to move, but somehow that's worse. It's as if she's given up and can do nothing but wail constantly.

It occurs to me that Lucy might fare a little better if I take the tracker jacker stingers out.

I find four stingers in a swollen lump on her left arm, and one on her neck. I remove the ones from her arm first. Then, leaning over, I try to get at the one on her neck.

Her eyes, which were closed as I was pulling at her arm, suddenly flutter open. The expression in them is a little different. She's actually _seeing_ me this time, I realize.

"Peter..." she moans.

All right, so she thinks she's seeing _Peter_... It's still an improvement. We'll just take this nice and slow until she regains her senses.

"No, I... I mean, I'm... It's Edmund," I mumble-blurt stupidly. So much for nice and slow.

"Peter," she says again.

All right, then. If she wants to call me Peter until the hallucinations wear off, who am I to forcibly shatter that illusion?

The funny thing is, for a moment there, before she said Peter's name, not recognizing me, I thought she was, well, becoming lucid again.

"Peter..."

Well, she certainly is a girl of one idea, isn't she?

"Peter, don't watch this...please..."

I swallow hard. I've been dead wrong. She hasn't been thinking _I'm_ Peter at all. The lucid look in her eyes was real. She _is_ coming back to herself. She's telling her brother, same as he told her during his own Hunger Games, not to watch.

"Just do it fast, all right?" There's a catch in her throat.

Clearly she is not referring to me removing the stingers. She thinks I've brought her here to kill her. Likely, due to her formally maddened state, she hasn't realized we're in a cave to begin with. She thinks I'm hanging over her, ready to deal her-so weak and helpless she can't fight back-a deathblow.

Still leaning over her, I run my fingers along the side of her neck and squeeze out the last tracker jacker stinger.

A moan of relief escapes her and her eyes, while still lucid, look a bit cloudy, like she's having trouble seeing out of them-suffering from intense dizziness, perhaps. They close up and, while her breathing continues normally, she doesn't stir again.

I discover that my fingers are still on her neck. Without thinking, I run them along the length from the middle of her neck to her collar. She moans. My fingers brush against something that feels vaguely like wet yarn.

Around her neck, Lucy has a length of thick, red thread tied into a makeshift chain. Hanging from it, I find there is a small brass, oval-shaped, pendant with hinges on one side. A locket.

It has to be her district token. I hadn't paid enough attention to notice what it was she'd brought into the arena with her until now.

Curious, I wedge my fingernail into the locket till it opens. Inside are two sepia photographs. One is of a remarkably pretty woman with cheeks and lips very similar to Lucy's standing in front of a tall, good-looking officer of some kind whose hand is rested on her shoulder. Her parents? The other photograph is clearly Peter. He looks the age he was when his name was drawn in the reaping; the year he won his own Hunger Games.

I imagine a younger, red-eyed, lonely Lucy looking at this very photograph when her brother was whisked away to the Capitol and she didn't know if she would ever see him again. Excepting, of course, his death on the telly. Who knows? Perhaps my vision is what truly happened. I can't conjure up an image of Lucy in my mind where she truly looks 'happy' that her brother was chosen for such an 'honour'.

For Career-stock, Lucy really is very unusual. Peter, too, come to think of it. What _is_ the matter with them? Where did all of their vicious Career genes go to? Peter can fight, but he doesn't seem to particularly enjoy killing, even if he did his share of it during his Hunger Games.

I remember Johanna Mason's advice: don't be a hero in there.

Well, I've already blown that strategy to bits, haven't I? I'm saddled with Lucy now. I caused her ally's death. She's my responsibility now. No matter what it costs me, I have to take care of her.

 _But_ , a little voice in my head says anxiously, _what if it comes down to the two of you?_

Looking at the frail, shivering, wet girl lying on the cave floor, I know I couldn't do it. I couldn't kill her if we were the last two alive. No more than I could have drowned her in that stream.

I can't kill this girl and go home and live with it.

Unsure of what to do next (I've got a wet, semi-delirious, frightened-out-of-her-bloody-wits girl in my cave...oddly enough, this situation has no precedent in my life experience), I decide to go through the contents of her backpack. There might be something I can use.

To help her, I add in my head. It's as if I have to justify this first. I'm not stealing from her, not really. Of course I'm not. Not raiding, either. Just, well, erm, _helping_. Yeah, that's it. Helping out. If we're allies, I need to do inventory on our resources, right?

Allies? Is that such a good idea? After she's healed up, what's to prevent her from turning on me?

But why would she turn on me? She's not stupid, I don't think. She's just a girl. She must know I'm bigger than she is, and _stronger_ than she is. Why else would she have been so willing to let me kill her? She wouldn't have, not if she thought she could win. That's right, isn't it?

Right now, she looks about twelve. She looks nothing at all like a fourteen year old Career who scored a ten. I think I ought to be a match for one small girl if she gets out of hand. If I'm not, then I sure as anything don't deserve to win the Hunger Games and go home.

And what else, if not allies, do I expect us to be? We can't be two separate tributes now. We can't not be a temporary team. She knows where I'm living. I know she's traumatized and injured. We are at an impasse. Neither of us wants to be sold-out to the other Careers and their allies. I'd rather have an aneurysm right here and now than be at the mercy of the girl from District 3 later.

I wonder whatever happened to Heath. His face has not appeared in the night sky, so he's clearly alive. But I've seen and heard nothing of him since the first day. He's lucky, at least the Careers think they can get rid of him later in all likelihood. He has time to get his bearings. Me, I know I'm being hunted. I have to be on guard every minute in the open.

Inside the backpack, I'm delighted (and somewhat jealous) to find that Lucy has a sleeping bag, blankets, a couple of towels, a bigger water canteen than mine (still more than a quarter full), flint, some kind of herb in a see-through plastic tub, and an electric torch.

I look both ways and take the torch. Consider it my payment for rescuing her.

My conscience reminds me in this troublesome, meek voice that sounds nothing like me how I saved Lucy to make up for what I did to Emeth, not payment. I tell it to shut up and let me take the bloody torch if I blasted well want to.

The one thing that disappoints me, though, is that there's no food. Here I was hoping Lucy would have something to eat. Was Emeth out hunting for their next meal when he got caught in my net?

A strange feeling comes over me, like someone is thinking of me. I feel as if I'm about to receive a gift that was supposed to be a surprise and I will have to act all, "Golly, I had _no idea_!" about it.

Of course, that's madness, isn't it? I haven't gotten a dashed thing from my sponsors. (Thank you, Johanna, you're officially the most incompetent mentor _ever_!)

All the same, I leave the backpack (and Lucy) for a moment and step outside.

A fancy soup tureen and another sleeve of crackers hangs from two silver parachutes, just about to touch the ground.

I'm so happy I'm tempted to rush back in there and hug the living daylights out of Lucy, telling her Johanna has sent us something to eat.

Then two things hit me at once. That is not _my_ district number on the lining of the parachute. Neither of the parachutes, actually. Johanna Mason has _not_ let a gift for me through. These are for _Lucy_ , from Peter. He is making sure she will eat today. Also, Lucy is probably not up for the whole uncharacteristic hugging and crying charade my hunger and over-tiredness has brought upon me. She's still confused and slipping in and out of consciousness.

I open the lid of the tureen. Tomato soup. Peter must be anticipating Lucy having a weak stomach, or else I'm sure he would find a way to send her something a bit richer and more filling.

"What?" I grouse at the sky, my neck craned upwards. "She's supposed to eat it with her hands?"

Another parachute, with two gold-plated spoons attached to it, falls down and lands beside the crackers.

"Thank you!" I say. I'm in better spirits, realizing the food is for us both. Lucy can't eat it all by herself, and there are _two_ spoons.

Back in the cave, I lift Lucy up, remove her doublet, hanging it over a rock to dry properly alongside the sleeping bag (that should be dry as a bone soon, since it was only a little damp to begin with), and drape a towel over her shoulders.

Her eyes open, focused, but not well.

"Peter sent you soup," I tell her.

She nods. But I'm not sure if she understands what I'm saying.

Because she seems incapable of lifting the spoon to her own lips (her hands tremble uncontrollably and her face keeps changing colours from white to green; she looks like Johanna during a hangover or during a withdrawal) I have to feed her.

It occurs to me why Mum never liked letting me have pets as a kid. I have no patience. None whatever. I only manage to get a few spoonfuls into Lucy's mouth before I give up. I don't even bother with the crackers.

I eat my portion then I sit still, my knees to my chest, looking at a patch of sunlight streaming in through the cave opening, tinted green by the over-grown willows.

Lucy is watching me more intently now. Her eyes are getting better, I think. She coughs several times, but once I'm sure she's not choking to death or anything, I mostly ignore her.

Hours later, her doublet is dry. "You're cold?" I ask, handing it back to her.

She nods and takes it. But the far-off look has returned to her eyes and she doesn't even put the doublet back on over her shirt. She just sits there, with it spread across her lap.

"Put it on," I remind her. "Your sleeping bag is dry. Try to get some rest. If you don't die of shock or pneumonia in the night, we can talk tomorrow."

"Why are you doing all this?" she murmurs, her voice hoarse. She's glad of my help, of my taking care of her, I think, even though I'm terrible at it, but doesn't understand where it's coming from.

"I don't know," I lie. This is not the time to tell her about Emeth's death being my fault.

Lucy stares at me, unblinking, for a full three minutes. It's unnerving.

" _What_?" I bark.

"Nothing," she croaks, her blue eyes glistening with unshed tears. "It's just nice to have a friend again. That's all."

"Don't be a sap," I tell her, less harshly than I might under different circumstances, because I know she misses her ally's company already.

But she's right.

I don't want to be her friend. I don't want an ally. All the same, hearing her breathing as she at first pretends to sleep then really _is_ asleep, makes me feel less hollow.

That's the soup and crackers, I tell myself. Nothing else. I'm not as hungry tonight as I was yesterday.

Oh, who am I fooling? It's not the soup. And all of Panem knows it.

It's the presence of the girl from District 1.


	18. Chapter 18: Jill

"Low blood-pressure?" I sighed, twisting my neck over my shoulder to look back at him sternly. " _Really_?"

"Dangerously low," Eustace answered wearily, his voice over-dramatically faint.

"Well, I _do_ hope you understand that the second we gather enough for a meal and stop to eat, you're _walking_ again," I panted grumpily.

We'd been wandering the woodsy parts of the arena all morning, searching for roots or non-poisonous berries (any plant that was safe to consume, really) we could gather. I had thought it high time Eustace put some effort into our alliance and provided a meal for once, instead of relying sorely on my ability to take down rabbits and squirrels.

To my great surprise, Eustace didn't put up a fuss; he made a speech about how I was entirely right, stating that eating only meat without any vegetation mixed into a daily diet was bad for our bodies anyway.

However, in agreeing to help search for and identify the safe plants, he asked for me to come along. I could hardly refuse him that; I brought my bow and arrows, thinking I would be standing guard, making sure no other tributes crept up behind him while he was poking around the bushes and studying the leaves. We were going further away from the stream than we'd been in a little while, anyhow, so danger was only to be expected.

My problem with our whole arrangement was that I had thought I would be watching his back, _not_ that he would be riding on _mine_.

I had been carrying him piggy-back for at least two miles.

He'd claimed he felt faint and couldn't walk any further as his blood pressure was dropping rapidly. So, despite the fact that this was supposed to be _his_ turn to provide for us, I still ended up with the exhausting feeling that I was the one-quite literally-carrying this alliance of ours on my back.

Eustace, to his credit, did indeed look very pale in the face and he was more wobbly on his feet than he had been a couple of hours earlier. I didn't believe, even then, cross and irritable as I could feel myself becoming, that his weakness-his declaration that he 'felt faint'-was _completely_ put on.

Still, that didn't mean I _liked_ hauling my ally around like a backpack.

It was a good thing he was so light, I thought. If Eustace hadn't been such a slight person, carrying him wouldn't simply have been _uncomfortable_ ; it would have been plain _impossible_.

We discovered blackberries and more mint leaves. Around noon, I think it was.

I was relieved beyond all reason and jolly well shook Eustace off of my back. "Oh, get down!"

But I suddenly felt anxious over the berries. Both of the ones Eustace found near our stream were supposedly poisonous. What if these, while they _looked_ like ordinary blackberries, were really a mean trick from the Gamemakers?

I recalled one year (the year Primrose's sister Katniss won, I believe, though I wasn't quite sure then and still am not certain now) when almost everything was poisoned. Even the water. The only thing the tributes could eat or drink were the supplies from the cornucopia, the gifts from their doting sponsors, and the rainwater.

Another year, even the rainwater was bad. There was nothing but steady drizzles of perfectly-timed acid rain that year.

"Wait," I said with widened eyes as Eustace held one to his mouth. "Scrubb, you barely looked at them... Are you _sure_...?" He was meant to be my expert and consultant in these things, and it wasn't that I was losing faith in him, exactly, so much as it was fear of the Gamemakers. How did I know they weren't secretly cross that I'd shattered those lights during my private session? Johanna thought they'd liked it. And I, after receiving my eight, had slowly begun to think so, too.

Only, what if we were both wrong?

Slumped on the ground by the bush, Eustace rolled his eyes at me and plopped the berry he'd been raising to his lips into his mouth, chewed slowly, and swallowed emphatically. Then he gasped and put his hand to his throat, making a gagging noise. His eyes rolled again, this time to the back of his head. He fell over, onto his side, like a tree that has been split in half by an axe.

Panicked, I rushed over to him. "Eustace!" I cried, dispensing with our surname-only rule for the moment.

An eyelid cracked open and one corner of his mouth turned up in a half-smile.

Before I could react, before I had a second to register this and become very angry, he grabbed another blackberry off of the bush and shoved it into my mouth. The end of his palm and start of his wrist pressed hard against my lips.

The berry on my tongue was good and sweet. There was no bitterness, no sharp aftertaste, no tell-tale signs of poison. After being hungry all morning, lugging Eustace around, it was too wonderful for words.

Never had a berry tasted so good to me before or after.

"Yes," said Eustace smartly, one eyebrow arched, sitting up again. "I'm sure."

The rage I should have felt towards him at giving me such a fright, so meanly, never did wash over me properly. I did feel angry, a little, but I also felt like laughing.

I wouldn't give him the satisfaction, though, so I managed a strangled-sounding, " _Don't ever_ do that to me again!" and reached for another blackberry, pouting as if in a sulk.

I could manage a pretty intense sulk, when it came to that. In the short time we'd been allies, I had learned how from the best.

All the same, Eustace had genuinely surprised me in a way I didn't think he could. I hadn't believed somebody as proper and uptight as him could play a practical joke like that; I thought he took life far too seriously to ever come up with such a thing. Also, I did not think my ally particularly _witty_. The knowledge that he could act in a light-hearted manner stunned me a quite bit. Part of my following quietness was, in fact, from inward shock, not wholly from my being surly at his mean jest.

But to pretend such a thing-to pretend to have eaten poison-it was ghastly, and Eustace truly did deserve to be scolded and then ignored for his jest. Even if, in retrospect, especially now, with it all being in the past, it _was_ rather amusing.

And I ought to have known better, really. Hadn't I seen him fake his death in front of the other Careers when I was supposed to kill him and join their alliance? I should have known what he was capable of.

Still, if he ever was to have a real accident, and I lost him, what would I do? I didn't want to have to go on alone, but I _would_ have to, at some point. After all, we couldn't both win.

We were Scrubb and Pole: allies in the Hunger Games, not Jill and Eustace: true friends. Alliances came and went, as they had to. No one could stop them from ending in tragedy, betrayal, or a solemn parting on both ends when the tributes began dwindling down and alliances were no longer necessary or advisable; no more than anybody could stop the wind from blowing.

It wasn't fair, though. None of this was. Fair would be being home again. Strange, however, how I'd always thought of fairness in life. That was what I'd always said. When Adela Pennyfather bullied me, I cried about its unfairness. Whenever I recalled how poor my family was, especially when I was small, how many times had I piped up, "But it isn't fair! Why _aren't_ we rich, when other people are?" Little had I known how unfair life truly could be before the reaping roughly slid everything into perspective. The exposure, the atmosphere, the lenses on the photograph of my life, had all been changed because of one little slip of Pug's finger in a bowl.

I looked at the gold bracelet token pushed up on Eustace's arm. Where had he gotten that? Could it have been a gift from his parents? Sort of like my own token, my silver ring of horses, was? Did his miss his parents as much as I missed mine?

My parents. I loved them so. They could have sold the thumb-ring ages ago, had a little extra to go round, only they hadn't, simply to please me. I'd been selfish, I thought, to ask it of them. Although I hadn't felt so at the time. I think all children, at some point in their lives, mistakenly gather that their parents owe them things they really do not. Yet I wondered if, since all this had happened, my becoming a tribute and being taken away, they were glad they kept the ring so I could have it with me in the arena. Did they ever regret accommodating their only child's petty request? I wished I knew.

"Silence, you dog, or I'll use the whip on _you_ next to show you how effective it can be!" shouted a cold voice that, in spite of its loud, carrying volume was chillingly level.

Nearby twigs cracked under a fair number of feet. I could hear the crunch of leaves being tread down on as well. The blackberry I was holding onto squashed between my suddenly trembling fingers, staining them a blackish-purple.

"Quick!" I whispered-cried, grasping Eustace's arm so hard that the little gold hammer pendant on his arm-ring left an impression in the palm of my hand. "There's a hollow under that tree to our left." It seemed an ugly, dark, nasty space, but I didn't see how we had much choice spur of the moment.

Together, we squeezed into the hollow. It was so narrow that Eustace had to slip his arm around my middle and press his body against my back in order for us both to fit. (I might have blushed if I'd had time to dwell on that aspect of our position.) As best as we could, we covered ourselves with leaves. We left our eyes free though; both because we wanted to see who was coming (though I would have wagered a king's ransom it was the Careers and their new allies) and because Eustace whisper-hissed that dirt falling off of the dry leaves we were pulling up from the ground getting into our eyes would give us bad styes that would swell and ache for days. I'd only had one stye in my entire life, and I was four, too young to really remember if it was as painful as he claimed, but since I didn't think the Careers would arrive on their hands and knees squinting hard in search of lesser-tribute eyes glinting behind buried hollows filled with dry leaves, I let him have his way. I preferred to keep my eyes unblocked by dirt as well, anyway.

The tribute who's voice we'd heard was Jadis Charn, from District 3. She had been yelling, it seemed, at Andrew from District 10.

From the bit I picked up, Andrew was saying she should have just stabbed a certain tribute they'd been fighting to get it over with, instead of whipping them to death. Jadis argued that she'd known what she was doing, adding, for emphasis, that they heard the cannon boom-that the girl had bleed to death as they wanted, so what did it matter which weapon she used?

"As much as I hate to agree with Andrew on anything, when he's been of no help whatsoever," put in Cato, coming up behind Jadis, "I don't see why you didn't just use your spear. You spent all that time-time you could have been using to help us hunt down other tributes-rigging the thing to be electric and you've barely used it."

I swallowed hard. Jadis, the girl with an _eleven_ , had an electric spear? Not even the Gamemakers could be happy about that, considering it was a weapon they had not intended to be in the games. The spear they put in the cornucopia was ordinary, she had been clever enough to improve on what they'd provided. Then again, perhaps they weren't all that upset about it. It would, if nothing else, make things interesting, not to mention send ratings shooting straight up. I knew we couldn't rely on some distant hope that an insulted Gamemaker would take her out with an avalanche or landslide. That would be a relief, but it wouldn't happen. It was nothing but wishful thinking. These games were just heating up. Their ratings would drop if they took out one of their biggest playing-pieces so early on. No, they would let her, and her dangerously re-designed weapon, live to see several more days as likely as not.

"The point is," said Jadis, "the task is complete. The girl from District 8 is dead."

"One more down," said Clove, grinning, elbowing Cato.

I wasn't sure what I felt for the girl from District 8. I barely knew her. And after she chased Lilliandil, I wasn't sure I liked her much. But Lilliandil had gotten away-with Ash-and Cecilia hadn't, not in the long run. Jadis had gotten her. Of course, if it weren't impossible, I would have preferred Cecilia to still be alive, for it to be Jadis Charn's face I would be looking forward to seeing in the sky that night. Only, it _was_ impossible. The girl from 8 had never stood a chance. I did feel badly that the boy she'd come here with had died first, getting himself blown up straight-off. I wondered how I would have reacted if something like that had happened to Edmund. I didn't even know him well, and I knew it still would have shaken me. Perhaps Cecilia going after Lilliandil had been more of an act of madness, brought on by the trauma of everything we were all going through in this arena, than an act of out-right cruelty. Maybe she was just trying to win-or die-quicker. Either way, I wouldn't have wished a slow, whip-lashing death for her; not for _anyone_. It was too dragged out, too pointlessly prolonged and gory. Surely all the viewers had watched the girl from District 8 die in slow, painful agony. Some of them, I was sure, sickening as the thought was, had liked it. Some of them, especially if they had bets taken out on Jadis, had probably been sitting with their eyes glued to the screen, cheering the uneven fight on.

"Never-mind the girl from 8," growled Cato. "What about Edmund Martin?"

"I haven't seen him since the first day," Andrew said.

"We'll get him," Jadis said, as if she hadn't the slightest doubt.

"Jadis..." Peridan, silent up till then, started to say something; his voice, I noticed, had a ring of doubtfulness to it.

"I _said_ ," snarled Jadis, "we'll get him."

"We had better," Cato muttered. It was clear that he thought they should have killed him already, impatient for the girl from 3 to hurry up and accomplish what they'd let her into their alliance for in the first place.

"Any sign of that idiot Eustace?" asked Clove.

Peridan shook his head. "I haven't seen him since Jill tricked us."

"You shouldn't have let yourselves be tricked," Andrew piped, resulting in several sharp glares in his direction. "That girl from District 7, she's a dem plucky one. Moves without making a sound."

"Well, she can't keep _Eustace_ quiet for ever," Clove pointed out. "And when he gives them away by tripping over something or crying out at the wrong time, we'll finish them off."

I thought I felt Eustace jump slightly (he was pressed up against me in such a way that I could sense even the smallest movement in him), but he didn't make an actual sound.

They were wrong. He would help me keep track of what plants were safe to eat, and I would keep him from making noise and getting himself killed. And I _could_ do it, too, I knew I could, whatever those pig-headed Careers and their allies said or thought!

"Do you think the girl from District 1 is dead yet?" was the next comment Jadis made.

"She wasn't last night," Clove said bitterly. "Her face wasn't in the sky."

"She's dead by now," Cato told them. "She must be. I pushed her back into the swarm of tracker jackers. I'm sure we'll see her face in the sky tonight."

"You ought to have finished her off then and there, not left it to chance." Clove scowled uncertainly.

"She's dead," Cato insisted. "The tracker jackers were buzzing like mad, and there was no other way she could have gone but the stream; and she would have been cornered in. Maybe it just took her a while longer to die from the stings."

"Or _maybe_ ," snapped Clove, "she got away."

"How could she possibly have gotten away?"

"Somebody could have helped her," Jadis suggested darkly.

"There wasn't anyone else there," Andrew snorted. "Just us, the dead boy from District 11, and Lucy."

How do you know that, you dolt? I thought, irritated by their arrogance. After all, they didn't know Eustace and I were so close, listening to every word they said, now did they?

"You don't think...?" began Peridan.

"That our little friend Edmund made an appearance after we left?" Jadis raised her eyebrows. "Yes, that's very much what I think."

"Wait, wait, stop." Cato shook his head. "Edmund Martin was _not_ there." From the unstable tremor in his voice, it seemed he could not stand the thought that the tribute he most wanted to kill had out-smarted him, hanging back in waiting until the moment he could spare one of their victims.

"Someone might have been," Clove decided. "But I'm with Cato, I don't think it was the boy from seven."

"Why not?" asked Andrew.

"Well, _think_ about it," huffed Clove, "if you had an eleven and were being hunted, would _you_ drag yourself down with an injured ally? I don't think Edmund is stupid enough for that."

"I think you underestimate how much of a fool he is," Jadis stated.

Clove shrugged.

"Clove may have something there. How _do_ we know it wasn't another tribute altogether?" Peridan pointed out. "Who haven't we seen lately?"

"Do you think it could have been Gael?" Clove thought of next.

" _Gael_?" Cato looked offended. "No way! Gael, save Lucy from the tracker jackers? That's the biggest fairytale I ever heard. Lucy is _dead_ , Clove. You'll see. Tonight, all of us will."

I didn't know what to think. Did I believe the girl from District 1 was dead? Partly, maybe... But at the same time, I had this feeling, this sense of just knowing, that she wasn't one to die so easily. Little as I knew her, she struck me as a survivor. Somehow I couldn't _truly_ believe she was already gone for good.

Although, if she was indeed alive, I don't know that I believed _Edmund_ saved her either. I couldn't understand why he would do that. How it would benefit him. Unless he just did it to be kind. Was that something he would do? I didn't know. He was from my district, so perhaps I wanted to think highly of him. Paradoxically, because he was from my own district and the pain of losing any tie I had to home was intense and I didn't want to actually _like_ him in addition to that, I wanted to believe he didn't do it-that he was nearby when the girl from District 1 was fleeing the tracker jackers, as Jadis apparently suspected-and he did _nothing_. But I didn't believe he was _that_ kind of person, either.

It was too confusing. I gave up mulling it over.

When the Careers were gone, Eustace and I crawled out, in a tangle of our own arms and legs and endless leaves and dirt, of the hollow. Our faces, in spite of our eyes having been free, were smeared and I had a feeling it would take a good long wash in that stream before either of us had white skin again.

We'd hardly any time to think, to catch our breaths now that we could breathe freely again, when suddenly I saw the boy from District 12, Glimfeather, heading our way.

I hated closed off spaces in the ground, and the hollow, while not deep enough to make me start shaking and hyperventilating in a panic, still close enough to the surface of the earth that I was mostly all right, had not been exactly pleasant or comfortable for me. I didn't want to go back in there, tangled and cramped, and with a bad feeling that the earth just begun swallowing me and my ally both, so I pulled Eustace behind the tree instead and waited.

Glimfeather's face was pale and weak. He panted for breath, like he'd been running a long distance.

Who was he running from?

Not a Career, of course, we'd just seen them. And they'd taken, the greedy things, most of the berries off the bushes where we'd been before they turned up, I then noticed in passing.

And not the girl from District 8, for Jadis had killed her.

No, it wasn't a _who_ at all.

It was a _what_. This horrid, shaggy bird-thing; a Capitol muttation of some particularly hideous breed. It was roughly the shape of a human-of...of a _person_ -but jolly nearly everything else about it was bird-like. It had claws instead of fingernails, and four feathered arms, and a cruel, curved beak.

So horrible was it to look at, that I simply couldn't stand it and buried my face in my hands.

Eustace watched, but he told me afterward that he had felt nearly as bad as poor, frightened Glimfeather, and he was certain, though I couldn't tell him either way, that he'd gone just as pale.

Later, I hated myself for not remembering that I had my bow and arrows. I hated myself for being such a coward. Because, if I'd acted quickly, perhaps I could have taken out the bird-thing before it got Glimfeather.

But I didn't. And it did. And it was all over before I could think properly.

The muttation didn't turn around on us next. It registered Glimfeather's dead body on the ground, cocking its head as a cannon boomed, then it keeled over and expired.

At first I wondered why the Gamemakers would have ordered a muttation that could make only one kill, and, even if such a strategy was beneficial to them in some way, why the boy from District 12 had to take the fall. Why not Edmund Martin or Jadis Charn? Why not Lucy (if Cato was wrong about her being dead)? Why not _me_? We all had high scores, and I had taken out those lights during my session. They had reason to want any of _us_ out of the way.

But Glimfeather, with his five, what good was his set-up death?

Later, long after the Hunger Games were over, I talked the matter through with Eustace. We came to two conclusions. One, the odds had not been in our favor-or poor Glimfeather's-and we had simply been in the games during a year the Gamemakers decided they wanted to remind the viewers that they _could_ take any of us out at any given moment; that they didn't _need_ us all to start killing each other, though we were supposed to. Or, two, that Glimfeather had had no chance of winning, or even of doing anything particularly exciting for the viewers, and, while things brewed and bubbled and got ready to boil over between the other, currently scattered about, tributes, they'd killed him off to hold the crowds for a bit.

I began to cry.

"Pole..." started Eustace, gently and hesitantly, like he hadn't any idea what to say.

"Don't say anything," I whispered as we moved on. "Not just now, Scrubb."


	19. Chapter 19: Edmund

"Good morning," says Lucy, in a small, somewhat strained, voice.

"You lived," I state the obvious dryly, lifting my head up from one of the blankets I found in Lucy's backpack and wadded up into a pillow, shooting her a rather nonchalant facial expression.

So the girl from District 1 has lived through the night.

Her voice is weak, and there are dark circles under her eyes, but aside from that, she seems much improved. The swelling of her tracker jacker stings has gone down. They're still too dark a hue of red and lumpy, though. I won't admit it, but I'm a little worried about her possibly getting an infection. All the same, it's a good thing I took out those stingers. It would be much worse now if I hadn't.

"What was that?" Lucy crinkles her brow and her eyes slide over to the cave entrance.

Outside, another parachute has come.

It's from Peter, obviously. Johanna still hasn't sent me a dashed thing. Just wait till she gets back to District 7, they're going to hate her so much. Except for the people who disliked me; they'll probably want to shake her hand.

Attached to the parachute is a bread basket with a few rolls in it. The white kind from the Career districts, not the darker heavy-grain sort from districts like mine, like 7. And a small lump of butter.

"Does Peter always send you breakfast?" I ask, a little jealously.

She shakes her head. "No, only when he doesn't think it's-" She stops, closes her eyes, and goes on. " _Didn't_ think it was safe for Emeth to hunt."

Emeth's death is like an open wound on her, far more painful than the stings could ever be. Speaking of him in past tense is hard for her. It is as if each word is caught in her throat and choking her so badly she can just barely get them out one at a time.

I hate myself for being the cause of her ally's death. He was her friend. She liked him. And he was better to her, from what I can gather, than I could ever be. He _wanted_ to be her ally; I _don't_. How am I supposed to keep her alive? I'm too busy watching my own eleven-labeled back to bother with a girl I _know_ the Careers want dead.

But my guilt will have to be pushed aside for the time being. That is not what I am going to talk to her about now.

"Must be nice," I say darkly.

"What?" Lucy asks.

"Having someone who makes sure you eat no matter what." I think she knows I am not only referring to now, during these games. That I'm also implying she never went hungry a day in her life in District 1.

Even someone as innocent and clueless as Lucy can't miss the edge of resentment in my voice. "Hasn't your mentor sent you anything?"

"Oh, yeah. Johanna sends me supplies all the time. That's why the cave is so full."

Lucy glances around the bare, empty cave. Aside from my knapsack, her backpack, and her sleeping bag, there's practically nothing. She picks up that I'm being sarcastic. "That would be a no, then," she says softly.

We eat the rolls Peter has sent us in silence.

Once or twice, Lucy looks as if she wants to say something, even opens her mouth to do so, but then she shuts it again, changing her mind. I imagine she is not used to having a surly ally. Emeth might have come across as the dark, quiet sort in a crowded room, only I get the feeling he was more open with his friends one on one. I don't think Lucy has had a breakfast like this, a tribute glaring resentfully over at her every five minutes, since she arrived in the arena.

After breakfast, I sit with my back to her, trying to decide what to do next. The Careers know about the stream. And soon, if they don't already, they'll know Lucy is still alive.

Is it really safe for us to stay here? The willow is a pretty good block for this cave, if a person isn't looking for it, but it's not a magic shield of invisibility that other tributes can't see through.

After all, _I_ found it, didn't I?

"You don't really want me for an ally, do you?" Lucy asks suddenly, breaking into my thoughts.

"I consider you more of an occupational hazard," I say with a shrug.

Like it or not, I'm stuck with her.

"Is it because you don't trust me?"

Coming from her, this is so unbelievably laughable. Does it _matter_ if I trust her or not? It's not like I think a little thing like her could kill me. Ten or no ten.

On the other hand, I think of how I was glad I left her dagger in the stream. I know I'm stronger than her, but maybe she's right. Maybe I don't trust her. She's a Career tribute. You can't trust them. A Career can turn on an ally in a heartbeat.

Still, at the moment, I'm more overcome with amusement that she thinks I fear her in some way, and I chuckle roughly. "Yeah, that's it." My voice is dripping heavily with sarcasm.

"What if I promised not to end an alliance with you?"

"All alliances end at some point."

"No, I mean," she explains, "if I promised that only _you_ could end it."

I turn my body round to face her and cock my head, arching an eyebrow. "So, you're saying, no matter _what_ , as long as _I_ say the alliance stands, you won't leave or betray me?"

She nods. "That's right. If you say it stands, it stands."

"Why do you trust me?" I ask suspiciously. How can she make such a promise? And so _freely_ , at that? Somehow, Career or not, with the way she's looking at me now, I don't doubt she fully intends to keep it.

I think back to her interview with Caesar Flickerman. Her blunt statement: _all I know, is I don't want to die_.

Someone who wants to live, and so _has_ to want to _win_ , shouldn't be making promises like that. Especially not honest, valid ones. And not to a tribute she barely knows.

"You saved my life." She lifts her arm and gestures downwards with her chin at the raised tracker jacker stings. "And you took out the stingers. You could have killed me."

"I still could." I force myself to smirk at her.

"No, you would have done it already." For once, she seems her age. She looks, for a moment, I daresay, logical. A bit like Susan, in fact.

Which is funny because, in every other aspect, she's practically the anti-Susan. I've never met anyone _less_ similar to my sister than she is.

I bet being logical isn't Lucy's first nature. Not that I would know, but that's what I would guess, if I had to. It must be years of watching the Hunger Games mixed with recent days of coaching from her brother (currently her mentor), that has brought her to this point. She needs to think less emotionally to survive, and she's smart enough to know it. Only, under normal circumstances, I imagine she's very different.

This just goes to show, really, that the Hunger Games, the need to stay alive, can change _anyone_ -however sparsely in some cases.

For the first time, since I can't really recall, I wonder if Peter had an ally at any point during _his_ Hunger Games. Must have been a Career, I think, if he did. I don't believe he would have ever considered doing what his little sister did with Emeth. To him, 'teaming up with a poor tribute' would have translated into 'getting killed on purpose'. And he couldn't let that happen, not with Lucy waiting for him back in District 1.

"Well, what now, ally from District 1?" I ask.

"I don't know," laughs Lucy, "you're supposed to know."

"Me?" I say huffily, frowning. What is she laughing for, anyway? There's nothing at all amusing about this. "Why me?" Then I realize the answer.

Of _course_! I'm such an idiot. Lucy has been in and out of consciousness since the tracker jacker incident with the Careers. But I haven't, not counting the ridiculously small amount of time I spent asleep last night, so naturally our next move, our first plan as allies... _I_ should have been working it out, preparing for this moment.

Lucy blinks at me patiently, giving me a strained half-smile.

She really is too friendly to be a proper Career. And this is her when she's down. When the world has been ripped from her, her ally murdered right in front of her eyes.

Golly, would I love to see how agreeable she is when circumstances are _good_. She's probably not quite as bad as the dead tributes from District 9 (she's cheerful, not bloody _retarded_ ), but still more overtly happy than the people I'm used to being around. I think Johanna Mason would want to hit Lucy Pevensie upside the head with something after about five minutes alone in her presence.

"Uh..." I think hard. "Do you know anything about berries?"

Lucy perks up. "Yes, actually. My cousin has dozens and dozens of books about berry varieties. I've only read a couple of them, but I remember most of what they said-and the pictures and all..."

"Good," I say, monosyllabic. I don't mention that I'm surprised to learn she has a cousin. I didn't know that. There's a lot about her I don't know.

"Have you got any?"

"Not yet." I've seen two kinds of berries growing near the stream. I've wanted to gather them, but I'm not sure they're safe. But if they are good to eat, the tracker jackers scared the Careers off before they could take any. Which will mean more for myself and Lucy.

Was Emeth, I wonder, about to gather those same berries when... No, I won't think about that anymore. If Lucy, who knew and liked him, can put on a brave face and get over his death, slipping into our new alliance, then I have no cause to be fussing over it. Making myself sick in a time of need for both of us. It's not fair to her. If I truly do mean to help Lucy, I'm going to have to do it right.

I will have to tell her, eventually, that it was my net that did him in. If she lives long enough. But for right now, it's best to act as much like it never happened as possible.

So I take Lucy back to the stream to help me identify the berries.

It is not till we're in sight of the tree Emeth met his death in that I realize this might be too soon. I'm being insensitive. Yes, this is about survival and, even with Peter feeding us via parachute, I know we're going to need more, but after what Lucy went through, bringing her back over to the stream so callously might not be the course of wisdom.

But Lucy doesn't say anything about it. Not once does she complain or begin blubbing. She _does_ , however, grab onto one of my hands and squeeze the circulation out of it as we pass under the oak tree.

The net's long gone. It was most likely taken out of the game when the hovercraft came for Emeth's corpse.

Something about the way Lucy's unsteady fingers wrap around my hand (once her grip has loosened a bit and the blood is actually flowing through it again) makes me feel oddly warm. Even I can't deny she has a way of being endearing without trying to be.

When we reach the berry bushes, she lets go.

Suddenly I wonder if it's safe, our being here. Never-mind that Lucy had a traumatic experience in this area. The Careers might come back here, looking for us. Then I remember we-or at least one of us-would have had to come back here eventually. To refill our canteens, if nothing else. And if the berries are good, we'll have bought ourselves more time to figure out a way to snare animals for meat.

"We can't eat these," Lucy says, flinching a little, as if not completely sure how I will react to the news.

"Poison?"

"These here," she says, "they're nightlock. They can kill before they even reach the stomach."

No good, dash it! She's right. Even just the _name_ sounds fatal. "Well, how about these other ones?" I wave my hand at the ones I mean. "They look like your 'nightlock', but they're not, I think."

"They aren't deadly," she explains, "but they'll put you to sleep for hours, and till they pass you can't move your arms or legs. It even makes it seem as if you've stopped breathing. I didn't learn about _these_ from a book; they grow some in window-boxes for wreath decorations in District 1.

"A girl I know accidentally ate some once. When she came out of it, she told us she could hear everything people were saying when they found her only she couldn't answer them or do anything to give them a hint she wasn't dead. She was scared they were going to bury her alive." Lucy pauses and shudders. "We call them coma berries back home."

Because I don't know what to say next, because I don't know how to tell her that I haven't yet come up with a back-up plan for feeding us when food isn't falling from the sky, I change the subject. "Yeah, that's a shame. Do you want your dagger back?"

"My...what...?"

"Your _dagger_ ," I say. "The one you had when you fell into the stream."

She hesitates. Her eyes line with tears as she edges closer to the water. Even though she was delirious, I wonder if she doesn't actually remember quite a bit about the last time she was in the water.

My guess is she remembers a lot. Not all of what she remembers is how it really happened, probably, but her memories of the events of the day Emeth died she _does_ have are likely clear enough.

Seeing him die. Being stung. Fleeing to the stream, nowhere else to go, and falling in.

They're unmuddled just enough to frighten her. The rest is blurred from the shock and the effect of the tracker jackers.

"I mean, do you want _me_ to get it for you?" I clarify. "I can't have an unarmed ally."

She smiles. "Thanks."

I wave it off.

Once I've gone in, dived under, grasped the dagger's hilt, and come back up, I notice Lucy is taking off her boots and sticking her toes in the water. There's still this constant hesitance in her eyes, but I can tell she's trying to make herself get over her fear.

Nearly an hour passes, however, which is about as long as we can risk staying here, knowing the Careers could turn up at any moment, and she's only made it in up to her ankles.

We begin walking back to the cave.

When we pass the oak tree, she grabs my hand again, but not as hard this time, and when we're almost to the cave I realize something else. This time, even though her grip was lighter, she didn't let go. I decide against bringing this up. As much as I hate to admit it, there's something kind of nice about feeling another human's touch after a few days in an arena where you have to be at least an arm's length from everybody else out of fear that they're trying to kill you to win and go home.

As we reach the last stretch of the walk, we find ourselves talking more. I've stopped answering as many of her questions in as monosyllabic a manner as I can. And she's stopped looking like she might burst into tears if properly chafed.

"Do you like music?" Lucy asks.

"Yeah, I think everybody does."

"Do you play an instrument?" she wants to know. "Back in District 7, I mean?"

"Me?" Please. I consider myself to be about as musically gifted as a tone-deaf Orca whale. At home, Susan was always telling me I had a nice voice (when she wasn't telling me to shut up), but I think that was just her polite way of saying I wasn't a _complete_ waste of oxygen, even if I never could remember to keep my dirty boots off the bedspread. "No. Never learned. You?"

"The violin," she says. "And Peter plays the piano. I mean, he used to."

"Used to?"

"He says it doesn't interest him anymore. He still sings sometimes, though, but not like he used to."

"If you don't mind my asking," I say, stepping over a tree-root, "how did you learn music? At school?" In 7, the school's music program is practically non-existent, but I imagine it's different in 1. Lives tend to be more...well, _cushy_...in Career districts. Everybody knows it.

Lucy shakes her head. "No, I never went to school. Peter didn't either. He had tutors. Then he taught me everything at home, after our parents died." She pauses and fiddles with her locket. "Elizabeth came to teach me the violin and Peter the piano."

"Who's Elizabeth?"

"A friend of ours. She's the same age as Peter, but she can play three different instruments. Violin, piano, and the mandolin. Her parents own a factory where they make instruments. They sell them to the Capitol, mostly." A flicker of worry passes over Lucy's face. "I wish I knew why she stopped coming to visit."

A bad feeling I can't explain washes over me.

"One day she never turned up for lessons. Peter got sad and quiet if I asked about her, so I just stopped."

"I see," I say, even though I don't.

There's no way I can be sure, from this one conversation, that the Capitol had anything to do with Elizabeth going missing, but it's still what I secretly suspect. But that doesn't add up. I don't know why the Capitol would want to take away Lucy's music teacher.

I remember the peacekeeper from my district who became an Avox. Did they turn Elizabeth into an Avox, too?

"You know, Mockingjays are my favorite birds," she says next.

I notice she's staring at the gold pin I'm wearing. My token. Given to me by Anne. But I try to forget that part. Even if the rest of Panem probably won't. I bet, if they've had a camera crew out to interview the families and friends of the tributes yet, she's already blabbed about where my token came from. They may even be working that detail in as a 'romantic angle' to my being in the Hunger Games.

And, of course, it fits in perfect with the fact that I said her name in my interview with Caesar Flickerman.

Ugh.

On the upside, it might just win me extra sponsors (they lap up that kind of lame star-crossed lovers nonsense here in the Capitol). But, then, I can't imagine Johanna, in charge of making arrangements with those who want to send me gifts in the arena (not that I've gotten any!), calling what is-or _was_ -between me and Anne 'a love story' with a straight face.

So, in a way, that's out.

I wonder how Anne feels about me and my female ally holding hands.

It's completely innocent, obviously. But let's face it, Anne Featherstone is practically the poster child for unwarranted jealousy. I mean, who else would have threatened to break up with her boyfriend if _Johanna Mason_ kept on flirting with him? I don't know one other person in our district who seriously believed those sheep eyes the girl from Victor's Village made at me were real.

"Mockingjay? Is that what it is?" Most birds look alike to me.

"Sure, I can tell from the long beak and the folds in the wings. They're beautiful."

"Do you even _have_ birds in District 1?" I ask, surprised.

"Of course we do," laughs Lucy. "They're on the back porch every morning."

Somehow I have never pictured birds in District 1. The place that was called Beruna when Panem was Narnia. Supposedly it used to be really beautiful. Rolling green lands. Rushing rivers. Now, from what I've heard, it's just a pathetic imitation of the Capitol but with more luxury-making factories and less restaurants and resorts.

"My sister used to keep bird feeders, years ago, but the blasted squirrels kept breaking into them," I tell her.

She smiles. "You must have a lot of squirrels. Because of all the trees."

My stomach growls. "It's not fair," I moan. "The tributes from 2 and their allies having all the food."

"The girl from District 5 steals from them all the time," Lucy says. "She's smart about it. She only takes enough so that they won't notice and come after her."

Foxface. I think about my conversation with her. Her up in that tree. How she stole Jill's bow. Wouldn't it be something if she beat all of us at these games? "How do you know?"

"We-Emeth and I-saw her do it. She even threw us a couple of apples. They had some bruises on them, but they were still good. She could have eaten them herself. It was nice of her."

Nicer, even, than I think a person like Lucy is capable of comprehending. She strikes me as someone who, over-all, wants to think the best of everybody. She wants to believe most people are good. So she does. Just like that. She doesn't realize, I'm starting to see, the full level of animosity between Career and non-Career tributes. Not really.

Of course, she knows what I did for her was an act of mercy. Saving her from the stream, taking out the tracker jacker stings. A 'kind' gesture. But her mind seems unable to _fully_ wrap around the fact that part of me hates her-hard as her demeanor makes it-for being from a rich district.

Foxface could have resented her, too. She's not so different from a District 7 kid. I imagine our childhoods were similar enough. Only she didn't. She was decent enough to throw those apples.

Given, she could have been doing it for Emeth's sake. Emeth being from an even poorer district than 5 or 7.

Personally, I think this is part of Foxface's strategy. She avoids the teamed-up Careers and their allies at any cost. Spares and throws what she doesn't have to eat herself (which, considering how little she probably can risk stealing, isn't much) to tributes who she knows probably won't want to come after her at first glance. That way, she's made no kills, she's not the strongest, and she's a sporadic source of food to the scattered tributes not working with or for the active Careers.

The girl from District 5 must have a mind-blowingly high IQ to come up with this.

Either that, or her mentors are bloody geniuses.

But, then, thinking of the mentor from 5 who Peter got into fisticuffs with, this doesn't seem likely. I honestly think she came up with her plan herself.

Lucy and I are just pushing aside the drooping willow and going into the cave when an idea strikes me. It's all this thinking of Careers and the increasingly constant hunger pains that triggers it. "Just how good, exactly, of hunters are the Careers?"

She takes a minute to figure out what I mean by my 'Careers'. I've forgotten, so quickly and unexpectedly, that she's of their stock. "Well, Cato can fight. Hunt if he _has_ to. But he'll be in a temper if he does and scare off all the animals."

"So they won't do well if they're hungry," I say, smirking.

"Why would they be hungry?" Lucy sighs, letting go of my hand and sitting down on the floor of the cave, looking up at me. "It doesn't seem like the Gamemakers are going to take out their supply this year."

"Which is why _we're_ going to do it," I announce.

Lucy's mouth hangs agape in surprise. "How?"

"We'll think of something." I nibble on my lower lip thoughtfully. "Right now, I could _eat_ their whole bloody supply. That would be one way to get rid of it."

She giggles lightly. Her stomach growls, too. "Mmm."

"Any chance your brother is going to send us more parachute food?"

"He will when he can," she says loyally. "I don't think they let him quite as often as he wants. They might have a waiting period after a certain amount of sponsor gifts or something."

There was the soup and crackers and then the bread. Not too far apart. Perhaps Lucy is right. They could be making him hold off. Just so they can see me fight a tribute for food.

A cannon booms. A death.

Lucy looks at me, the blood drained from her face. "Who do you think that was?"

"I don't know." I grimace. "We'll see tonight."

"I hope it wasn't Gael," she say softly. "That's the little girl from 4."

"The one who's aiming to be just like you when she grows up," I comment.

"When she grows up, she's going to be just like _her_."

"Assuming she _does_ grow up," I say darkly. The words have slipped out. I haven't thought of the effect they will have on Lucy.

There's conflict in her face. She wants to live. She wants to see her brother again. She wants to go home. We all do. But she also wants Gael to grow up and figure out who she really is.

I realize I want that, too. And I also want little Prim, Gael's ally, to be all right. Even if my sparing her was for a selfish reason that ended in a tribute being killed anyway. Even if I don't know anything really _about_ her.

I don't want anyone else to die.

Even stupid Lasaraleen who didn't know the first thing about lighting a fire discreetly didn't deserve to die young.

"Edmund?" Lucy says softly.

"Yes?"

"What do you think would happen if...if instead of fighting one another, all twenty-four tributes all became allies. Working together... What if they wouldn't kill each other?"

For a moment, I'm horror-stricken. What is she _thinking_? Saying that on live television! They gamemakers will kill her off just for having those thoughts.

Then it hits me. Lucy's no fool. She has asked me this _now_ , because she wants to know my opinion. A death will hold the crowd for a while. With a cannon just having boomed, she needs to muster up the courage to ask me that before the attention is back on us. Because who knows if the next death will be closer to us and it will be unsafe to risk such a question.

Even the way she did it, it's not private. Doubtless, it's still on tape somewhere. But her shaky, quick voice _could_ be interpreted as a scared tribute's mindless pondering. Since she's from District 1 she's a little more important. The Capitol will make excuses for her sooner than say, _Jill_ , blurting out something borderline treasonous like that.

Paranoid, I answer, ambiguously, "It wouldn't work out."

"Why not?"

I smirk. "Because, Lucy, you have to admit, a bunch of teenagers hunting and killing each other is a mite more epic than twenty-four kids linking hands around a bonfire and singing _Kumbaya_." My voice is sardonic. I know the home viewing audience will love it (especially in the Capitol). They'll love it because I sound like the boy who fell out of his chariot during the opening ceremonies.

No other communication passes between myself and my new ally for a couple of hours. We're both hungry, tired, and discouraged. Even if I wanted to risk setting a snare, after the disaster with the net, I don't know what I'd make it out of.

These two hours are miserable and hollow.

"Tomorrow," I break the silence at last, my voice hoarse, "no matter what, we're taking out that food supply." I'm beyond bitter that they are out there, enjoying a good meal, while the two of us go hungry in this cave. I don't care what it takes; I'll find a way. They're going down.

"Edmund, why are you quacking in-between every word you say?" Lucy turns (she's had her back to me) and stares at me as if she thinks I've gone round the bend.

I stare back at her exactly the same way. "Uh, I'm _not_..." Is it possible that not _all_ her hallucinations from the tracker jacker stings have worn off yet?

" _Listen_ ," she insists.

I do. A distinctive quacking does indeed reach my ears. "Oh, that's just a duck outside the cave," I croak out irritably.

A _duck_! Outside the cave! Food! Dreams _can_ come true!

We start, jumping to our feet simultaneously, and begin a mad dash out of the cave.

Lucy gives me her dagger and I locate the duck. _Here, ducky, ducky..._

It is waddling around, sort of pacing back and forth, a few feet from the mouth of the cave, quacking its whole head off. This is quite possibly the dumbest duck that ever lived. But I'm thankful for the creature's stupidity.

I fling the dagger and nail the duck. "Yes!"

Lucy wrinkles her nose and her face discolours at the sight of blood pouring out of the duck, staining its feathers a drippy dark red. I know she won't think it's so gross when we have roast duck for our next meal, though.

When we finally agree it's as safe as it's ever going to get, we risk a fire and cook our duck.

I wonder why the gamemakers let us have duck. Don't they want us to be hungry and vicious when we take on the Careers tomorrow?

 _No, you moron_ , I tell myself, _they want you to be hungry, sure, but not bloody well pass out before the show even gets good..._

I'm about to shovel in my first mouthful of duck (disappointingly small portions when divided between myself and Lucy) when I get my first gift from a sponsor.

Johanna has let a small glass bottle of spicy peach sauce to flavor the duck with go through. Of all things, this is what she decides I need.

Ha ha ha. My sides are splitting.

I really hate my mentor.

The sauce turns out to compliment the duck surprisingly well. I decide I hate Johanna a _little_ less than I did before I gave in and tried the sauce. But only a little.

I watch as Lucy licks the sauce off of her thumb and wipes the back of her mouth with her wrist. For some reason this makes me smile dementedly.

All right, it's official, I've gone completely mental.

I force the corners of my mouth downward, frowning intensely.

"What?" Lucy glances at me nervously.

"What's the matter?"

"Are you angry with me? Did I do something wrong?"

"No. I'm not angry."

"Well, you look it."

"Well, I'm _not_ ," I snap. For someone who isn't mad at her, I sure sound it.

"Well, you look it," she repeats, nodding for emphasis.

Evening falls (the dead tribute turns out to be the boy from District 12) and soon it's time to get some sleep.

Lucy offers to share her sleeping bag with me. At first I feel uncomfortable. Then I remember how innocent she is. She's only thinking of making sure neither of us dies of hypothermia in the night. (Which is pretty nice of her, considering I've done nothing but frown and glower at her-oh, and give her the evil eye-since we ate the duck.) I bet she and Emeth shared the sleeping bag, back when they were allies. So it's perfectly fine.

We crawl in together and it's so warm and comfortable that for a minute I almost think I'm back home in District 7, in my bed, in my room. When I close my eyes, it's exactly like that.

Well, except for the fact that I have a girl's back pressed against my chest. That, admittedly, is a change of routine.

Maybe, I think, we should have slept head-to-toe. No, wait, it's a sleeping bag; I would suffocate! Obviously. By Jove, what's the matter with me? It's just a _girl_. It's only _Lucy_.

After a few minutes, half-asleep, I thoughtlessly slip my arm around her waist. Because, clearly, this whole sharing a sleeping bag situation wasn't already awkward _enough_.

But, hey, this is kind of nice. I haven't been this warm since the games began. And Lucy doesn't care. She's already asleep. So, you know what? I'm not moving.

In the middle of the night, Lucy's hand latches onto the middle and index fingers on the hand attached to the arm currently around her waist.

The unexpected squeeze on my fingers wakes _me_ up, but she's still fast asleep.

I could pull my hand free and snap something grumpy at her if she wakes. But I don't.

Instead, I smile and close my eyes again.

In the morning, I'm up at the first ray of sunlight, trying to think of a good plan for taking out the Careers' food supply.

I tell Lucy to let me know if she thinks of something, but I don't expect her to come up with a plan.

Destroying things, or else stealing them, doesn't seem to be my ally's area of expertise.

As I sit on the cave floor, I pull one of those silver-and-glass sticks out of my knapsack and run my fingers along them, fidgeting anxiously while I rack my brain for an answer.

Lucy notices what I have in my hands. "Where did you get that?"

"It came in my knapsack," I say absently. The silver sticks don't matter now. What matters is having a decent plan so the Careers don't _kill_ us today.

"How many do you have?"

"Four," I murmur carelessly.

"Edmund, stop." She reaches over and takes the stick of silver and glass out of my hands.

"Hey!"

"Listen, I know how we're going to do it."

I take another silver stick out of my knapsack, fiddle with it, and tune her out. _Think, Edmund, think..._

She plops down directly in front of me. "Edmund!" she says, gently prying the second silver stick from my fingers. "Don't you know what these _are_?"


	20. Chapter 20: Jill

_Deep in the meadow, under the willow_

_A bed of grass, a soft green pillow_

_Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes_

_And when again they open, the sun will rise._

I stopped, spellbound, as the pretty singing reached my ears. The words were slightly muffled, though simple enough to make out by straining a little. The singer was nearby but wisely trying to keep their voice down. If I had been not even a foot further up the barely-there path I was dragging my tired feet through, I wouldn't have heard it.

"Scrubb, do you hear that?" I asked my ally.

"That noise?" Eustace replied. "Sure."

"It's not _noise_ ," I said. "It's a _song_. Listen."

_Here it's safe, here it's warm_

_Here the daisies guard you from every harm_

"Not clever," said Eustace, clicking his tongue and shaking his head at me. "Singing when Cato and Clove and their beastly allies are about everywhere."

I felt defensive of the singer. I knew it had to be the girl from 4 (Gael) or else Primrose from 12, because of the high tone of the voice, and I thought they were going through enough, being in the Hunger Games so young, without Eustace making comments like that. They were only little girls, after all. You couldn't expect them to be endlessly silent every minute of every day.

Besides, whichever of the two it was, she wasn't singing loudly.

"I want to get closer," I announced. If there was something going on, I wanted to see what it was.

"But, Pole," he began.

I made a face of tired disbelief at my ally, arching an eyebrow. "Don't tell me you're scared of a pair of little girls."

"It could be a trap," was his cautious reply.

I rolled my eyes. "What sort of trap involves _singing_?" Unslinging my bow from where it hung over my shoulder, I added, "But if it bothers you so much, you can stand behind me."

Eustace wrinkled his nose disdainfully. "Honestly, Pole!" Then, "But what if they think we've come to..."

"Then they'll know they can be heard," I said pointedly. "Better us than the Careers, right? _We_ aren't going to hurt them."

He gave in. "All right, Pole, you win. Let's find them and see what's happening."

As quietly as we could (in my case, without making even the slightest sound; in Eustace's, only stepping on a twig, loudly snapping it into two uneven pieces of splintered wood, once and then getting his foot caught in a tree-root, almost landing flat on his face, twice) we glided through the trees and ducked our heads under brambles and low branches, moving towards the singing.

When we reached the singing tributes, a momentarily frightening sight met our eyes.

There was Gael from District 4, lying on the ground, looking very unwell, her eyes half-closed, a soft moaning coming from her every couple of seconds. Sitting up next to her, singing and gently stroking her back, was Primrose.

Eustace swallowed hard. I believe he had the same thought as I did; that Primrose was singing to her wounded ally. There were no wounds visible from where we stood, but that didn't mean, I knew, they weren't there.

Perhaps there was something we could do to help. I stepped out where they could see me, my bow lowered so they would know this wasn't an attack. Behind me, Eustace closed his pocketknife.

I opened my mouth to say something and my breath caught in my throat, making it hard to speak. What could I say to them? We were all supposed to be killing each other, and these were not our allies-not Eustace's and mine-but I wanted to help them so badly. Primrose had stopped singing, yet her song still rang in my ears. It was so good and sweet. There before us were not two allies-at least, not _only_ allies. They'd made friends; good friends, at that. It wasn't fair that they had to be thrown in here together. Even if they beat the odds, they both couldn't win. And if they were the last two alive...

No, it was too horrid to endure. Nurturing that thought was like poison in my mind; it made my head hurt and my throat burn and my eyes blur.

"What's amiss?"

I started at the words. They hadn't come out of my dry throat, much as I'd been trying. No, they came from Eustace. Eustace, who hadn't wanted to come here, to find them in the first place. And here he was, face full of more concern even than mine was, squatting down beside Primrose, and tucking a lock of hair behind Gael's ear.

Then I remembered that Gael was a Career broken off from that crew same as he was. Before the games began, before Lucy teamed up with Emeth and Gael did the same with Primrose, they'd sat at the same table together. They kind of knew each other. There was no indication that Gael and Eustace had bonded in any way (that was more evident between her and _Lucy_ ), but I could see at that moment that-in spite of this-he really did care what became of the little girl from District 4.

Suddenly I understood the real reason Eustace hadn't wanted to come. He'd known, from the girlish singing voice, that, one way or another, he would find himself face-to-face with Gael, and he hadn't wanted to. And still, in spite of that, he had stuck by me-followed me with only the most minimal of complaints.

"Where's she hurt?" Eustace asked Primrose. "Was it Clove that got her?"

The girl from District 12 shook her head and put her hand on Eustace's shoulder. She'd noticed, before I did, that both of his shoulders were shaking. "No, she isn't wounded. She has bad stomach pains."

"Poison?" was the first thing that manged to slide past my lips. They felt as sore as my throat; I could feel hardened blood sticking to my upper lip, and I knew they were chapped and had been bleeding earlier without my thinking much of it.

"No," Primrose told us. "I don't think so. My sister, Katniss, she taught me a lot about poisonous plants. I wouldn't have let Gael eat any, you see. I think something just disagreed with her. She can't go far like this, so I'm sitting with her."

Only ordinary stomach pains; nothing more. This was nothing fatal, nothing contrived by the gamemakers to take her out (not like Glimfeather with that nasty bird-man mutt), only a commonplace illness any child might suffer from. It was a small thing.

The problem was, in the arena, even the smallest thing could make a tribute defenseless against the greater dangers.

Eustace warned the girl from 12 that her singing could have easily drawn other-bigger-tributes to them as easily as it drew us.

Her eyes filled with tears as she confirmed what I'd thought from the start; Gael had _asked_ her to sing; it seemed to comfort her (she'd given Gael a few herbs she found growing that she said she'd seen her mother give to people with stomach pains, but their effects hadn't quite kicked in yet), and, for what it was worth, Primrose had been trying her hardest to keep her voice low as she sang.

"Do you have any food left?" Eustace asked next.

Primrose's eyes watered all over again as her hand left his shoulder and went over to a small burlap sack they seemed to be keeping their few supplies in. She pulled out a couple of strawberries and, lower lip trembling, offered them to Eustace, misunderstanding.

He was asking if she and Gael had enough to get by for a few days, considering Gael couldn't hunt or gather well in her current condition. But Primrose thought he was asking for her to give him what was left of their food.

Eustace shook his head. "No, keep it."

"You aren't hungry?" she asked softly, slowly withdrawing her hand and putting the two strawberries back.

"Our sponsors sent us some bread," I told her.

Johanna and Peter both had, earlier. Two parachutes with small loaves of sourdough had floated down shortly after we'd woken up. We'd eaten as much of it as we had thought safe to risk. I, honestly, would have eaten less than I did, if only Eustace hadn't spoken aloud his worry that the bread would go bad being carried around in the hot sun all day. I didn't want ruined bread in my pocket; so I ate a little extra. Still, we had a bit left over.

"Out of curiosity, though, where did you find strawberries growing in here?" Eustace arched an eyebrow.

"We didn't," explained Primrose. "Katniss and Finnick sent them."

I wished Johanna would have sent _me_ strawberries. Not that I wasn't grateful for the bread, of course.

"Are those two strawberries really all you have left?" I worried.

Primrose winced and her returned tears finally brimmed over, which I took for a 'yes'.

"Here." I handed her the last of our sourdough bread; I couldn't leave them with nothing. Eustace didn't object.

"Thank you," she gasped out, overwhelmed. "But, no, you should keep it. I'm going to get more food."

"How?"

"Well, I know the girl from District 5 steals from the Careers sometimes," she said. "Once, she threw an orange to Gael. She must be able to get at a lot of it, if she can spare an orange like that. So I thought I would..."

Although I felt my own face tighten with sheer horror and dismay at the girl from District 12's jolly nearly _suicidal_ plan, it was nothing compared to Eustace's reaction. I thought for sure he was going to vomit, rather surprised (and relieved) when he didn't.

His face was green and his lips were going a deadly snow-white. "You can't do _that_ ," he choked out. "Stealing from Cato and Clove? They'll kill you. Ask Gael-if she stops groaning long enough-if you don't believe me! _Maybe_ if it were only Peridan... _maybe_ then! But it's not. And they have allies; big ones." He shuddered violently. "You're only going to get yourselves killed if you try it. Keep the bread. And stay away from the Career camp."

The term 'career' sounded queer coming from him, since he was from District 1. Even the way he said it was off; as if his mouth could just barely form the word. It just sounded _wrong_ , mostly.

He must be spending too much time with me and my District 7 attitude, I thought. Or perhaps he was just fed up with the fact that the Careers (even though he had been one of them not too long ago) wanted to kill us.

But he was right about Peridan. Remembering how he'd seen Eustace sitting up on that branch and didn't tell Cato and Clove made me feel pretty sure that he was less of a savage brute than they were. If a twelve year old girl stole from them on his watch, he mightn't try to kill her for it, not if he could pretend to have simply not noticed.

Still, I was wholly with Eustace in his insistence that Primrose should not try it under _any_ circumstances, no matter _who_ was guarding the food.

"I just thought..." Primrose faltered. "I just..."

" _Don't_ think about it," I said, a mite more gruffly than I probably needed to.

"I won't sing anymore," she told us. "They won't hear me after I take a few of their supplies. We'll keep out of sight."

"They're hunters," Eustace practically _spat_. "They'll kill you. I _said_ , don't do it."

He sounded so much older, his voice a great deal deeper, when he spoke to her in that tone, that for a moment I suddenly felt a little shy of him. There was less of the boy tribute from District 1 in him for once and more of a fellow human; almost as if we were all grown-ups, as if we all mattered as more than mere moving pieces in a deadly game.

Careers were supposed to live for the honour of these games, but I believe, if he could have, Eustace would have had all of us still-living tributes air-lifted out of there in a heartbeat. It wasn't only that he hadn't really _trained_ for the Hunger Games, as other kids in his district did; I got the feeling he had never even _liked_ them to begin with.

 _Please, please_ , I prayed silently, _don't let it come down to the two of us. I can't kill him if it comes to that; I simply can't do it_.

I didn't know who was I praying to. Back then, we had little to no real concept of a higher power. It wouldn't be till much, much later that I would find one. In the meantime, I think I was praying-inwardly calling out-to anything and anyone that would listen. For, if there _was_ something bigger out there than the Capitol, something higher above the salt than Panem's government, I wanted it to take pity on us tributes. The Capitol didn't, but maybe something else could.

Looking back, though, in spite of my patchy knowledge of proper prayers, and my doubt that anyone was listening, I now wish I'd prayed for Primrose, too.

Would that have changed things? Well, perhaps not. No, _most likely_ not. But the fact that I forgot her and thought only of myself and my ally stings when I mull over the memories on sleepless nights.

At least, I could have prayed for Gael's stomach condition to improve.

I _could_ have.

The thing is, I didn't.

"How long do you think the bread will last them?" I whispered to Eustace as we were leaving them.

"How long would it have lasted _us_?"

"Barely a day," I said.

He sighed and his shoulders slumped. I figured he was still worried about Gael. "Well, then."

Slinging my bow over my shoulder, I took a deep breath. "Scrubb, I think there's something we should do."

"What?"

"We need to head for Cato and Clove's campsite."

"Are you balmy? I'm not going back there!"

"We've got to."

"Don't see why." His voice shook a little.

"You're afraid!"

"I am _not_!" Eustace growled. "I just don't see why..."

"Ooh! I'd _tell_ you why if you _would_ shut up for a moment!" I snapped.

He folded his arms across his chest and his eyes narrowed. "I'm listening."

"We need to get close to the camp, where the food is, climb a tree, and keep an eye on it."

A snort came out of him as he reached forward and felt my forehead. "Are you running a fever, Pole?"

"Get away!" I slapped his wrist away. "I'm _fine_."

"Ow," he grumbled. "You've gone and bruised my wrist."

"I'm sure it's fine." I rolled my eyes. "I thought you were listening to me."

"I was." Eustace pouted.

"I'm worried about the girl from District 12. She's going to want to get more food. Not so much for herself. For Gael, you know. They're friends. When her stomach pains get better, she'll want something to eat. I don't know, but I think Primrose is the sort that will feel badly if she doesn't have anything much to give her."

"But we told her not to," said Eustace, as if that settled it.

"She might still try."

"She's a bally idiot if she does."

"That doesn't matter." I gritted my teeth. "What matters is seeing if she's all right. Or do you _want_ Clove or one of the others to kill her?"

"You know I don't, Pole."

"Then let's find a tree and play look-out for a few hours," I insisted, almost out-right _pleading_. "Come on. I'll swing you up behind me. It will be easy, we won't be seen. And, if she comes, there might be a way we can stop her before she gets there, or keep them from hurting her. We could call out a warning or something." I knew how pathetic that all sounded, but I was feeling more desperate by the second.

"So, if I've got this right, your brilliant plan, Pole," said Eustace, his brow furrowed, "is to sit in a tree all day just to watch and see if the girl from District 12 does something stupid to get herself murdered or not?"

"Yes," I said shortly. Well, it kind of _was_ my plan; in so many words...

"Fine." He gave in. "Let's go sit in a stupid tree."

I was so happy that he agreed to my foolish plan that, on impulse, I hugged him.

Greatly to my surprise, he didn't push me away or complain that I was wrinkling his doublet or squeezing him too hard, as I figured he was liable to do; instead, he hugged me back.

When I finally pulled away from him, I knew I was blushing. "Well, we had best get moving, then, hadn't we?"


	21. Chapter 21: Edmund

I stare blankly at my ally. "Uh... _sticks_?" I guess stupidly.

"They're explosives," says Lucy, running her pinky finger over a pattern carved in the silver.

In that case, it's a good thing I didn't give into my curiosity and smash them against a rock...

My brow furrows. "How do you know?"

"Peter used to work in a factory, before his Hunger Games," she explains, "making these."

I cock my head at her in disbelief. "Your brother made _explosives_? In _District 1_?" She has got to be joking. There's just no bloody way that statement is true.

"No, that's not what I mean." Lucy shakes her head. "He...he made the _shells_." She looks down at the two silver-and-glass sticks in her hands. "The silver and glass parts." Holding up a stick to the trickle of light coming in from outside, she adds, "The actual design-for how it _works_ , not how it _looks_ -is from District 2."

Right, I think, District 2: _weapons_. That does make sense.

"The chemicals inside" -Lucy turns the stick upside down, sloshing the liquid inside- "they come from District 5." She pauses for a moment as if lost in thought. "That's sort of close to your home, Edmund, isn't it?"

"Very," I say. "So, what kind of chemical is it?"

"There's a technical name for it," she says, "but I can never remember what is it. Most people-in District 1, at least, I don't know about everywhere else-call it Juice of Fire Flower."

I've never heard of it. That chemical. For all that I know in detail of the kind of power District 5 specializes in, that district might as well be a million miles from mine as soon as walking distance. But I bet Foxface would know. Perhaps even Johanna might; she's spent far more time with people from 5 than I have.

Evidently, though, Johanna's not too keen on helping us do anything beyond flavoring over-roasted wild duck. And Foxface isn't our ally. So its me and Lucy and what _we_ know, collectively, against all the other tributes.

But, hey, no pressure, right?

"Well, how does it work?" I want to know. Honestly, I can't figure how in the world two sticks made of silver and well-contained liquid (even if it _is_ a potentially dangerous chemical) can make real explosions.

"There's a notch in part of the carved design," Lucy tells me. "But you have to know exactly where it is."

"Do you?"

She nods. "Yes. Peter showed me. Sometimes he had to make all the carvings in the silver himself, by hand. He taught me all about it."

"So what happens if you press into the notch?"

"You need to do it on both sticks. The liquid in the glass starts glowing. Then you strike the two sticks together, breaking the glass."

"And that's it?" I ask. "Instant explosion?"

"Yes."

"That seems like a stupid design." And, really, if I may say so, pathetically below standards for District 2. I am not impressed. "How would one avoid...oh, I don't know...getting blown up _themselves_?"

"The reaction forms a kind of protective shield round the person who strikes the sticks, in a circular shape. They don't get hurt. Everything else from a certain point out of that protective circle gets blown to bits."

Oh. Right then. I stand corrected. My apologizes to District 2 and their brilliant lethal designs and what-not. I should have figured, really, that a district that takes such pride in making its tributes as deadly as humanly possible would have had the brains to come up with a 'safety area', so to speak, when it comes to their weapons.

"So your idea for getting rid of the Careers' food supplies," I realize, "is one of us goes there and blows their camp to bits?"

"Of course." She smiles shakily. "Except, it has to be me."

"Why?"

"Edmund, you didn't even know what they _were_." She swallows hard. "You could hurt yourself. I've seen them made. In the factory, I _saw_ how Peter had to handle the glass cases and tubes full of Juice of Fire Flower so he didn't hurt himself or anybody else. You didn't. You won't know... You can't do it. It isn't safe for you."

"Oh, but it's just fine for you to go parading into their camp on your own, carrying explosives?" I snap sarcastically. "What would you even say? 'I come in peace to blow up your food' ?"

She stifles a giggle. "No, of course not."

"But how would you..."

"I need you to distract them somehow. Get them all out of there." She doesn't intend to blow _them_ up (much as that would tip the odds in our favor), only their food.

"I suppose I could just sort of run in there, punch Cato in the face, and run back out." Yeah, that would definitely get their attention.

Unfortunately, it would also get me surrounded and killed. But you can poke holes in just about _any_ plan, really. And I suddenly realize I might get quite a bit of satisfaction out of biffing the boy who left Lucy to die a terrible death via angry tracker jackers.

Lucy pales. "Oh, no," she blurts, slightly panicked. "Don't do _that_."

"It was just a joke." Well, mostly, anyway. "Do you really think I'm such a moron I'd go running into a mad free-for-all with Cato and the others?"

"N-n-no," she stammers out. "I just... I don't want to lose you."

I bite down on my lower lip, hard. I won't make that response matter by giving it a reply. Nor will I admit that I might feel the same way-maybe, a little.

For a few moments we say nothing further. Then I roll up one of my tunic sleeves and start scratching absently but with surprising vim at a little red lump I've felt forming on my arm for days now. Ever since the first day of the Hunger Games, in fact. I haven't been paying much attention to it (too busy trying to survive, I guess), except to note, every once in a while, that it's awfully irritating.

"I think it's a bug bite or something," I offer, when I notice Lucy looking over at me with concern as I'm digging roughly into the red bubble on my arm with my fingernails.

"It's not a bug bite," she says softly. "And you shouldn't scratch it."

"It itches," I complain sourly, frowning at her.

"I think your skin's had an allergy to your tracker."

"My _what_?"

"The _tracker_ ," she repeats, as if I should know what that means. "The one they put in you before the games."

"They didn't put any tracker in me." I think I would remember something like that.

"Yes, they did. They do it to every tribute-so they don't lose us in the arena. Peter told me they missed his vein twice the year he was in the games." Lucy shuddered. "They use a needle. Some years, they put it in when the tributes are sleeping; I think it's when they expect them to be difficult." She lifts her arm and rolls up her own sleeve to show me a small black bruise with a tiny red dot in the middle where the needle went into her skin. "That's when they got me. I know because I started waking up before they got the needle all the way out again. I would have been scared to death, if Peter hadn't warned me before that they might come; if I hadn't known what was happening. Mine didn't swell, not like yours, but it still hurt."

Suddenly I remember the milk I drank the night before the games, and waking up with the feeling I'd been drugged.

A ball of unspeakable anger forms in my stomach.

This is nothing worse, really, than other things the Capitol has done. But it _feels_ worse, somehow.

I know that doesn't make sense. It's just...putting something inside of me like that while I was trapped in a drugged slummer... The knowledge of the whole thing has left me feeling violated and vulnerable.

But, anyhow, I stop scratching and pull my sleeve back down.

Now that Lucy and I have resumed conversation, we don't stop. We move from talking about the tracker back to making plans for taking out the Careers' food.

I finally have to admit Lucy's plan for using the explosives is the best one. Even if I don't like the thought of her being put in danger.

She's cheated death in these games twice already. First, when she fell (all right, when I _shoved_ her) on the first day. Second, when I saved her from the tracker jackers. (Is it just me, or do I seem to be fitting into pretty much all the near-death experiences of the girl from District 1 like a bloody puzzle piece?)

To distract Cato, Clove, Peridan, and their allies, should be easy, though. All I have to do to get their attention is show up. Thanks to my eleven. But the tricky part will be keeping myself alive _after_ getting their attention.

I'm not worried, though, about them having explosive silver sticks, too, and retaliating on us. The gamemakers wouldn't have put enough explosives in the game for that. They don't want their whole arena to be a smoking wreck. I bet my knapsack is the only one with explosives in it and here I never even realized I've had something so valuable. Not till Lucy told me.

Finally I come up with the idea to climb a tree and drop pine cones down onto the Careers' camp till they look up and come after me. I think this is my best bet, since I know more about leaping from tree to tree than they do.

District 2 isn't a woodsy area. They have some mountains nearby, but not many trees to speak of. Most people from District 3, with all their electronics, probably think wood is an out-dated material. What do they care about trees or learning to climb and swing from them?

District 10, however, might be a problem. It used to be called the Shuddering Wood, back in the days prior to Panem. They've got plenty of trees there. Not quite so many as we have in District 7, but enough to have learned to climb them from an early age. Then again, they work with livestock, mostly, so perhaps they keep to the ground.

Anyway, Andrew, the only living tribute from 10 at the moment, who is working with the Careers, doesn't seem a particularly athletic chap to me. He's a bit like Anne Featherstone in the sense that he seems to have been born into the wrong District. A prissy can't-get-his-white-knuckled-hands-dirty-without-blubbing fellow like him would be happier in District 1 or 2, or, better still, the Capitol. I can't picture him happily rounding up cattle. It keeps ending up as one of those 'one of these things is not like the others' picture-games in my head.

Lucy and I pack up and store/hide everything we will not be carrying with us on our little visit to the Career campsite.

Most carefully of all, I hide the two extra explosives. The ones we don't need. It only takes two, struck together. And who knows when another set of them might come in handy?

I strap my sword to my side. Lucy fiddles with her dagger and the two sticks by turn. I won't say anything further about it now, but I'm worried about her part in this. If only I was going in alone... But, no, this isn't a one-man job. I'm going to have to accept that much. We _both_ need to do this.

And our parts are as good as written down in stone, no way they can be changed or reversed.

Secretly, I _am_ a little chafed that I'm just the distraction-the pine cone throwing boy-while Lucy's the one doing the real deed. I get tired of being second fiddle sometimes. But that nagging anxiety I can't mention, that she might get hurt, overrules whatever true jealousy of her I have. For once, in my eyes, she's not even the girl who has had more than me growing up. She's my ally and I...I...I don't know...

As we walk, I find myself telling Lucy things about life in District 7.

It begins when she asks a question or two, her curiosity peaked when I assure her for what feels like at least the tenth time that I'm a good tree-climber with years of practice behind me.

She wants to know about all about the trees. Are they very like the ones here in the arena? How fast do they grow? Have I ever tried to raise a baby pine tree in a pot? (No, but _Susan_ has, a couple of times.)

As much as I feel I should be weary of her questions, I'm not. I'm enjoying our conversation. So much so that I wish it could be this-just walking like we are now-all day.

No plan, no gnawing hunger pains, no danger. Just this.

Soon I'm telling her about more than just trees. I'm sharing childhood stories I never realized mattered to me-to anyone, really. Till now. Right now, they matter. Lucy listens. She smiles and laughs at exactly the right parts.

When I get to my adolescence, I have less to say. Somehow I feel embarrassed sharing stories about drinking with Johanna and sitting in Anne Featherstone's kitchen eating leftover apple pie, listening as she fired maid number one hundred and something (I stopped keeping an actual count around sixty). So I don't, mostly. I think I bring up Anne maybe once. And I don't even use her name. I sort of just refer to her as 'the girlfriend'. And while I _do_ say something off-handedly about being at Johanna's house a few times, I don't mention the drinking. At all.

I learn a bit more about Lucy's childhood. Seems that, aside from her parents dying when she was so young, she had a very happy one. Peter saw to it. Then came the reaping. Everything in her world crumbled. She was left with an uncle named Harold, and her brother, the one person who understood her, was taken away. And she watched the interviews and the games day after day, with no idea how it would end.

I have to ask, "Did you watch, when he told you to stop?"

"Yes," she says, her voice barely a whisper.

"Hey," I say softly, noticing she looks like she might cry. "He came back."

"Not at first."

"What do you mean?" I don't understand.

She twists her mouth, thinking of how to word it. This must be something that the Capitol doesn't want her to say. She can only hint at whatever it is. Imply it. Not blurt it out. And that's hard for her. It doesn't seem to be her natural way of speaking.

"When Peter came home," she says slowly, carefully, "he was...very tired..."

"Of course." I nod. "Anyone would be."

"He slept a lot," Lucy continues, her voice pained. "He didn't answer when I talked to him, sometimes. And the curtains in whatever room he was in... He always had them drawn tight. He was so... _tired_...that it was like he wasn't really there."

He was depressed. Clinically so. I get it now. Not _tired_. _Depressed_. The Capitol wouldn't let her use that word. It would imply that their perfectly harmless Hunger Games did something bad to him. But it is what it is.

"He seems better rested," I comment ambiguously. There's a question behind my statement.

Lucy picks up on it. "Remember Elizabeth? She came over every day for two months. She liked opening all the curtains he closed...usually right after he closed them. The first few times, he just walked into another room and ignored her. Then he said he was too tired for company-too tired for anything."

"What did she say?"

"She said, 'then you should get up and go talk to Lucy'."

"What? You're making that up."

"No, true story," she insists, smiling a little at the memory. "And he did come out and talk to me. That's what she told him every time he was tired: to talk to me. He used to say afterward that Lizzie and I always made him feel less tired."

"Lizzie?"

"That's what he called her: Lizzie. Busy-Lizzie, actually. It was his nickname for her."

My chest hurts. I don't like to think about this Elizabeth as an Avox, or dead, or whatever it is the Capitol might have done to her. _If_ they did anything. I still have no way of knowing. Probably, I never will. Not that it's any of my business. But still.

Though, come to think of it, Lucy has given me something new to go on.

This story she's just told me confirms that Elizabeth's disappearance didn't happen till after Peter's return from the Capitol.

And that she and Peter were good friends.

She must have cared about him, to try so hard to get him to come back to himself. And she succeeded with flying colours. Lucy said Peter got 'sad and quiet' when she asked about Elizabeth, not 'tired'. Somehow this young woman had given him the strength, not only to come back, but also not to go away again at the next tragedy that hit him full-force. She got him to remember what really mattered to him. The reason he fought so hard to win the games. His baby sister, Lucy.

If Peter ticked off the Capitol at some point in the arena, or after in his interviews as a victor, could they have done something to Elizabeth to punish him?

But why Elizabeth? Why didn't they just go for the biggest gun? Why not Lucy? That would have broken him harder, drilled in any 'lesson' they meant to teach him.

I almost choke on my own spit. Because, by Jove, I think I've got it! They _did_ take Lucy. But in a less obvious way.

When was the last time anyone actually _checked_ the name-slips in the various districts' reaping bowls?

Could the Capitol have rigged it?

Lucy is fourteen. The odds were in her favor. Her name couldn't have been in there more than, perhaps, seven times. Peter would never have let her take out any tesserae. And even if that piano he used to play per-chance fell on his head and he _did_ let her, she wouldn't have _needed_ to in the first place.

And District 1 is Career-stock. So why weren't there any volunteers to take her place for the 'honour' of participating in the 77th Hunger Games?

Call me crazy, but I seriously smell a conspiracy here.

We've fallen into silence. Both lost in our thoughts.

When we begin speaking again, somehow or other we've ended up back on the topic of District 7.

"You must miss your family terribly," says Lucy sympathetically. "At least Peter came to the Capitol with me so I wasn't all alone."

"I did miss them," I sigh-admit, keeping my voice level so that, in spite of this little confession, my sponsors won't think me weak. "On the train, coming here. It was just easier not to think about it, though. I miss them now, too. It just made it that much harder, ignoring it all this way."

"Do you miss the forest?" she asks. "I mean, there's lots of trees here. But I know what it's like to see something similar to home but not the same thing. You still miss the more familiar ones, you know?"

The ones that are real. The ones that matter. The ones that aren't part of some deadly arena.

I nod. "I haven't thought as much about missing the woods near my house in seven... But," I chuckle, "it's funny... The longer I'm here, the more I do."

A speck of something cold and white floats down from the sky and lands on the back of one of my hands.

"Snow!" cries Lucy, tilting her head back and grinning up at the arena sky.

" _Snow_ ," I moan dejectedly.

This is a delight for her, but for me it just means our walk will be colder. Not to mention, if the branches of the trees get icy enough, it might made me fall and break my neck, ruining our plan entirely. But the gamemakers wouldn't do that, would they? They want to see Lucy blow something up, I should think. I mean, it's ratings dynamite! Literally...

And how do we know this isn't genetically engineered snow designed to give us, I don't know, the plague or something?

All right, perhaps I'm beginning to get a bit _too_ paranoid.

No, I think, furiously, hating the gamemakers though I can't let it show, I'm just paranoid _enough_.

But the snow turns out to be all right. Just the normal white flaky stuff. At first I'm trying to trudge through it, muttering a lot. Lucy's happiness over the stupid snowflakes and gathering white dust on the ground is contagious, however. Before I know it, I'm smiling along with her. I even have to choke back laughter several times when she starts sliding on it and twirling around.

The snowflakes gather in her hair. I'm sure they're in mine, too, but since my hair is dark I imagine it just looks like I have really bad dandruff. In Lucy's, it looks almost like decorative silver-white tinsel.

I think I need to get my eyes checked. Because I wonder how I could have thought Lucy was plain-looking the first time I saw her.

The age thing-well, she's small, so perhaps that's excusable. But she isn't _plain_ at all. Where in the world did I pick _that_ belief up from?

True, she isn't pretty the way most other pretty people are attractive, but I sort of like her kind of prettiness better. People like Anne, or the actress who plays Laurel, look like they _try_ to be beautiful. Lucy has this sort of naturalness about her which they're sorely lacking.

It's as though Lucy has countless different faces all in one. One face is impish and easy to mistake as belonging to a twelve year old. Another is sober and quiet, and her eyes look too old for the rest of her till her sadness flicks out and is instantly replaced by something brighter. (She looked the latter when she realized Emeth was dead, and earlier today, when she talked about her brother's post-Hunger Games depression.)

And yet another, the one she's got on right now-playing and spinning in the snow-is somewhere in the middle.

Her face is impish, but not that of a small child. Her smile is there, bigger than ever, and her eyes don't look so weighed down with troubles.

Funny thing is, while I like some faces she has better than others, they all seem to be the prettiest as long as they last.

Till the new one comes round and out-shines it without trying.

I've gone completely off my head. What's _wrong_ with me?

When we come to the place where we will have to go our separate ways, I feel my heart sink.

I'm scared. I don't like this. But it's all we've got. We can't let the Careers keep their food. They'll out-live us. The more preoccupied they are feeding themselves, the less time they have to hunt _us_ down.

Unless Cato goes cannibal and decides to kill two birds with one stone.

But surely even he's smart enough to realize this would disgust his sponsors and make him a target for the gamemakers. So no worries there.

"So," Lucy says, "this is it."

"Yeah." What do I do now? Shake her hand? Fall at her feet uncharacteristically sobbing, "Don't go!" till we're both very, very uncomfortable?

She scuffs the toe of her right boot into a patch of snow. "Be careful."

That's exactly what my sister told me, I recall. Back at the Justice Building in District 7. _Be careful_.

"You too," I mumble. Then, impulsively, I find my slightly numb fingers have flown to the gold pin and I've taken it off of my doublet. "Here." I pin the gold Mockingjay to the upper right corner of her doublet, directly over the crest with her district number. "It has more meaning for you, anyway." She loves Mockingjays and I know next to nothing about them. "Maybe it will bring you luck."

Tears swim round in her eyes. She unties the frayed red thread knotted at the back of her neck and fastens it around mine.

I look down at the brass locket hanging from my neck like a collar-tag. "You can't give me this." Aside from the obvious fact that this precious token is all she has in the arena tying her to her dead parents and her live mentor brother, I like seeing it on her. Partly, I think it was one reason why I reluctantly decided to trust her. After all, what kind of _true_ Career walks around with a picture of their loved ones hanging from their neck?

"You can give it back tomorrow," she says, as if this somehow makes it impossible for there _not_ to be a tomorrow for either one of us.

Then, without warning, she gives me a hug.

"See you afterward, if-" I murmur when she pulls away. I mean to say, "If all goes well." But she cuts me off.

She shakes her head. "No. No _if_. Just see you afterward."

"All right." I nod shakily. I can feel tears in my eyes now, too. "See you afterward, then."

She turns around after she's walked a few feet away from me, about to disappear into the trees and emerge in the Careers' camp the second I've distracted them.

I nod again.

There's this tight grin on her face as she lifts her hand and waves goodbye to me.

I want to wave back, but somehow that doesn't seem strong enough to express how badly I'm hoping for my ally's safe return.

So, even though I haven't the foggiest idea what it means, I end up copying Prim's little send-off to me. The one she gave me when I let her out of that net.

I press the three middle fingers of my left hand to my lips and hold them out. I feel incredibly stupid, but at the same time sort of glad. Like I know I'm doing right.

Dumb, I know, but still.

Then Lucy's gone.

I'm on my own, fast-walking towards the trees I'll start climbing, swinging, and jumping from until I'm directly over the Careers' campsite.

As I climb my first tree, heading in the right direction, I wonder what everyone (all the viewers) thought of my giving Lucy that pin.

Lucy's giving me her token, to borrow, was one thing. But I handed over mine first. And without any hesitation.

The thickheaded romantics must be horribly confused. They must be wondering how I could have so thoughtlessly given away a present from the love of my life. Anne is probably finding _more_ gold pins so she can stick them in a wax image of me. She must be furious. Not that I care.

I bet Mum and Susan cried. I bet, watching all this, they're starting to like Lucy, too. Mum, who will love anything that's cute and moves, is probably already dead-gone on her.

I can't picture my father's expression; his reaction to my District 1 ally. I can only see him standing there in the Justice Building, powerless to help me, but wanting to so much that I know now, even if he _could_ have volunteered in my place, at that moment I would have loved him too much to let him.

This is not the sort of thing I can ever say out loud. For one, I don't like talking about my feelings (I _hate_ being psychoanalyzed). And, more importantly for right now, that is not the way victors speak-or even think.

 _Victor_.

The word seems so hollow bouncing around in my head between my red, smarting ears. The faint roar of the wind blowing the snowflakes all around me droning it out from time to time.

Because, if I am a victor, Lucy is dead.

 _Everyone_ in here is dead.

And the hollowness. The bitterness left behind from all the needless loss and violence...

Once it fully hits the victor, does it _ever_ go away?

My name is Edmund Martin. I am fifteen years old. I am in the 77th Hunger Games. And I am terrified of winning.


	22. Chapter 22: Jill

"Wait," Eustace protested from two branches below me. "I have a splinter."

"Not another one!" I hissed down at him impatiently. I wished he wouldn't talk so loud; the Careers might hear.

He whimpered.

"Here, take my hand." I bent forward and tried to swing him up behind me.

"Ouch! You're chaffing the splinter!"

"Oh, do dry up, Scrubb!"

"Shh! Be quiet, Pole, I think Peridan just turned this way."

I wasn't too worried, for Peridan was, out of the whole lot, the one I feared the least. After all, he had let us go once. Why not again? True, we were too close to the Careers' camp for their comfort this time and he might take that into account, but if one of them _had_ to take note of us spying, I wanted it to be him.

But not even Peridan's eyes seemed to land on the right tree. We were perfectly safe for the moment.

"Pole," whispered Eustace suddenly. "Do you hear a rustling in the trees to our right?"

I whipped my head round.

In the wrong direction, apparently.

"No, no," he corrected me, quickly. " _My_ right."

And for a split-second I did think I heard-and saw-something-some _one_ -move.

There had been, unmistakably, a flash of dark doublet and the scuffed-up tip of a boot. I knew there had to be another tribute in the trees; not just ourselves.

I suspected Primrose and felt momentarily fearful; but at the same time I didn't think she would be such a good climber as our unexpected neighbour in the trees was. Also, I couldn't be sure, but the tribute...they seemed, a bit...well, to be completely honest, _big_ to be twelve year old Primrose. In fact, that was one of the ways I could tell the tribute was so good a climber in the first place, despite how brief my sighting of them had been. Anyone else of that weight would have made far more noise up there, stationed amongst the highest of the branches.

"It's not a Career," I whisper-decided. "Can't be. They're all down there."

"No," agreed Eustace. "Which tributes can climb? Not the two from District 6, I should think."

"No, definitely not."

"Could be the girl from 5, or the boy from your district."

Edmund. Was that him up there? If so, what was he _doing_?

A pine cone flew from the tree and hit Cato in the back of the head.

He cursed and spun round, glaring at the tree. "Who's there?"

The tribute stuck his head out, into view. It _was_ Edmund!

Cato went for his pistol.

"Oh no," I mouthed to Eustace.

The bullet missed Edmund narrowly, taking out a few leaves.

In retaliation, Edmund threw another two pine cones. One of which hit Cato, and the other of which cracked against Clove's left arm, falling in two neat pieces on the arena ground.

"Don't waste all our bullets, Cato," Clove said, baring her teeth and glowering up at Edmund. "Let's just climb up there and kill him."

" _You_ can climb?" Edmund asked, his voice dripping with fake-amazement.

"For your last meal," Cato swore, "you're going to eat those words."

"Let _me_ kill him," said a cold voice from behind.

Edmund paled at the sight of Jadis coming towards the tree, and he jumped from the branch over to the tree beside it. Thankfully, he was going in the opposite direction from where Eustace and I were, so I didn't have to worry about a disastrous collision.

Cato grabbed his sword. The pistol was still on his person, only it appeared he was taking Clove's advice not to use up all the bullets shooting at Edmund.

Besides, from the glowing look on all of their faces (with the exception of Peridan, who looked weary, and Andrew, who looked annoyed and bored) I gathered they were going to enjoy hunting him.

But how could they not suspect some treachery? I wondered. Did they really believe Edmund Martin, the tribute they'd been griping about killing off from the start, would just appear at their campsite for no logical reason whatsoever?

I could see the girl from District 3's electric spear glowing blue and felt myself shiver although I wasn't a bit cold. If Edmund was lucky, she wouldn't throw it at him, for fear of losing such a valuable weapon.

Clove, however, had no such reservations about throwing her daggers. I supposed she must have gotten an almost limitless supply of those from the depths of the cornucopia that none of us other tributes had any chance of getting at.

Two daggers missed Edmund entirely, but the third must have nicked him, because he cried out in pain and I saw blood dribble down the side of the tree.

"That's my girl!" Cato cheered, putting an arm around Clove and squeezing her shoulders briefly.

But Edmund was moving again, bloody nick or no bloody nick, and so were the Careers and their allies.

They were getting further and further away from the camp. Soon Eustace and I couldn't even see them at all anymore. Then, even their voices-their shouts and curses of disbelief that Edmund wasn't hurt nearly so fatally as they'd thought, and was still leaping from tree to tree as if there were no tomorrow-were lost to us.

"It's like a mother bird," Eustace said pensively.

"A _what_?"

"A mother bird. You know, how they pretend their wing is broken and lead predators away from the babies? I think the boy from your district might have been doing the same."

"But that was real blood, and quite a bit of it," I said, shaking my head sadly. "We both saw it, didn't we?"

"Yes," Eustace admitted, "but I think he reacted worse to the pain than he needed to. On _purpose_. They probably just pricked him enough to draw _some_ heavy blood and he acted like he was badly wounded."

I thought of his token; the gold pin with the bird on it. How ironically fitting. Only, what was it he was accomplishing by fooling the Careers and their allies, leading them away from their camp?

That was when I saw the girl from District 1 arrive in the middle of the camp, walking speedily towards the food supply. She looked breathless and tired. Snow, which had just stopped falling a few minutes prior to Edmund's appearance in the trees, melted in her hair.

Alarmed, I found myself fitting an arrow into the bow-string.

Eustace wobbled on his branch and grasped my wrist. "Don't."

I lowered my weapons; though I wasn't so sure I even _wanted_ to kill her.

Shooting her in cold blood was not an option, though, even if I _had_ wanted to.

Besides, I didn't dislike her. She seemed nice enough. I was only a little frightened by all this, not understanding what it could possibly mean.

Something on her doublet glistened in the light. I drew in my breath sharply when it struck me that it was, in fact, Edmund's token. They were allies; she must have been in on his plan.

Two sticks that shone like silver frames around glass windows were in her hands. She did something to them and they started to _glow_.

Eustace paled and his eyes widened. "Pole, don't move."

"What is it?" I whispered anxiously. "What _are_ those thingummies?"

"Don't climb down," was all he would say, as if in a traumatized trace.

I watched as the girl from District 1 brought the two sticks together, smashing them against one another.

The arena around us shook. Eustace almost fell from the tree, which was rattling like it was in a hurricane or an earthquake, but I grabbed onto the back of his doublet and held him in place. My bow almost dropped to the ground and surely would have been instantly destroyed in the explosion; but it caught on a knobby branch just below us and was preserved. The arrow was lost to me, blown to bits on the ground. But I still had a whole quiver full on my back so the loss was not substantial in the least.

Heat blasted in my face. Then cold. Then heat again. Then I blinked.

That was when I saw her.

Primrose.

And she was running, unaware of the explosion before it was too late, headed for the Careers' food supply.

Oh, why hadn't she _listened_ to us and stayed with Gael?

I knew that the girl from District 1 had seen her, from inside this kind of protective perimeter inside the eye of the explosion, and it looked like she was screaming and crying in there. But there was nothing she could do till the explosion was over.

"Prim?" she cried out hoarsely, when it was safe to move again. "Prim? Where are you?"

"She got away?" I asked Eustace shakily, not having understood what I'd just witnessed. There had been too much heat and cold and flashing to make sense of anything.

"No." There were tears in his eyes. "She's gone."

Sure enough, the cannon boomed.

The girl from District 1 was now in hysterics, sobbing and shaking, as if she didn't know what to do with herself.

Eustace blurted out something about helping her, and I almost let him, almost went down from the tree _with_ him, when the Careers returned without warning and we were forced to stay put.

They didn't have Edmund with them, and both Cato and Jadis looked furious. No great surprise there; I already knew the cannon had been for Primrose and not him.

Catching sight of their smoldering camp, Cato went into a rage.

The girl from District 1 snapped back into reality and started running from him but in a moment he'd grabbed her by the hair.

"Did you do this?" he demanded, screaming in her face.

She whimpered, saying nothing.

Eustace blurted out a rather choice curse word I'd never thought I'd hear him use. I got the feeling that if he were a bit bigger, if he stood a chance, he would have gone out there and tried to give Cato a licking he'd never forget.

"You little witch." Clove pressed the tip of her dagger against Lucy's neck. "This is going to hurt, I'll make sure of it."

Tears streamed down the girl's face.

" _Lucy_!" I heard Eustace croak out beside me. He was rocking back and forth on the branch and nothing I could say would make him stop.

None of the Careers or their allies heard him; his voice was too low.

"Wait, Clove, look!" Peridan pointed to the pin on Lucy's doublet. "Isn't that Edmund Martin's token?"

Jadis sucked her teeth and cocked her head in a very, "I told you so," kind of way.

"So, you're allied with the boy from District 7?" Clove lowered her dagger. "Aren't you just full of surprises."

"So she's a quick-minded little tramp, just like her brother," growled Cato, "who cares? Can we just kill her already? We're going to have to hunt for food tonight, thanks to this twit."

Lucy spat in Cato's eye. "Leave my brother out of this."

Clove slapped her across the face. "Don't spit at him."

"Burn in District 13!" Lucy snapped.

Later, Eustace explained to me that in District 1 'burn in District 13' was actually a very potent insult. Because District 1 is the closest (along with 2 and 4) to the Capitol, they considered the rebellion of 13 to be almost an 'original sin' so to speak. They often refer to the burning ruins of District 13 as a place of unspeakable misery and hideousness.

When they particularly hated a person in District 1, they supposedly were in the habit of not so politely suggesting their enemy, um, _visit_ there. Usually accompanied by a rather rude hand gesture. I strongly doubt Lucy had any love for the Capitol at that point in her life (if she ever did to begin with), but the phrase in itself must have stuck with her, coming out in a moment of distress.

And while the phrase, per Eustace, was not used nearly as often in Districts 2 and 4, they would have known it for an insult much faster than those of us in non-Career Districts like 7, who most likely would have just stared at the insulter blankly, wondering if they were feeling all right.

For that remark, Lucy received another blow to the face, except, this time, it was Cato who'd slapped her. He hit her harder than Clove had. Her nose looked for a second like it was stained with red dye; then it started dripping, getting darker and darker without any signs of stopping, and I knew his blow, on top of Clove's, had caused her nose to bleed profusely.

A gasp escaped my throat when Cato was suddenly charged from behind and knocked down. I didn't see what had happened, only Cato's body being shoved to the ground as his back was hit, full impact, by another male tribute.

Lucy screamed, being dragged to the ground because Cato still had a grip on her hair.

I initially suspected that Peridan had turned on the others and was, in a fit of madness and morality, trying to save Lucy, but that didn't quite fit. (Especially as Peridan wasn't standing behind Cato at all; he was next to Andrew, whose mouth was hanging agape in shock.)

"It's Edmund Martin," whispered Eustace in my ear. "He was in the tree behind him."

Evidently, when his ally hadn't turned up where-ever she was supposed to, he must have figured something had gone horribly wrong and come back here, dangerous as it was, to look for her. Seeing Cato smack Lucy, he'd jumped on his back.

I couldn't decide it I thought it was brave or else stupid.

Both, really, I concluded in the end.

But it was all too horrid. Edmund was out-numbered and his arm (where Clove's dagger must have hit) was caked with dried blood where his doublet sleeve was rolled up. At least it had clotted all right, even if it looked ghastly. Eustace, I thought, might well have been right about him purposefully exaggerating how badly hurt he was to lead them away from Lucy.

Not that it did a whole lot of good, sadly.

I mean, Primrose was dead. Both of them were bleeding. The Careers wouldn't be hungry for long. Cato would take something down eventually.

So what good had they done?

But, paradoxically, I couldn't blame them. I had the feeling that, if I'd had explosives and Eustace was a good climber, I might have tried the same thing.

It was just such jolly bad timing. Why did it have to be _today,_ when Primrose wanted to steal food for her ally who'd taken ill?

A little voice in the back of my mind reminded me that if they hadn't done what they did, Primrose would have died today anyway; the Careers and their allies would have killed her. Perhaps, they would have tortured her first; hit her like they were hitting the girl from District 1. Death by explosion might have been the less painful way out when you weighed all the factors.

My cheeks felt as wet as if they were housing two streams but I hadn't realized I'd been crying. I'd barely felt myself blink the tears away to clear my vision and watch all that was happening right then.

Cato let go of Lucy's hair and, rolling over, pinned Edmund to the ground. Edmund probably would have stood a good chance of squirming away if his arm hadn't started bleeding again from the wound behind ripped back open.

Lucy pulled out a dagger and stabbed Cato in the side. He let out a cry of pain and rage and Edmund pulled himself free.

But not for long.

Soon Clove had grasped his arm and Jadis was coming at him with her electric spear.

Edmund pulled out his sword, swatting Clove away with the flat.

Jadis lunged with her spear; I suppose she was expecting Edmund to defend himself by going for her directly, but he didn't; he had the good sense to bring his sword smashing down on her spear.

"Edmund!" cried the girl from District 1.

For no sooner was the spear broken in two than one of the halves found a home in his stomach, courtesy of Jadis Charn.

But, as sheer luck would have it, Edmund had twisted his body away at exactly the right moment. So that broken spear that should have run a hole right through his stomach only scraped him like a cut. Given, it was a very, very bad cut. Deep and running strong possibility of infection if my guess was correct (it's hard to make such guesses when you're watching everything from high up in a tree, but the blood staining his doublet gave me _some_ idea).

Snowflakes fell.

The gamemakers were making it snow again.

I felt sick and weak, even a bit feverish.

A hand grasped mine. Eustace. I intertwined my fingers with his.

My eyelids felt heavy. My head hurt and there was a pain behind my eyes. For a moment I thought I was going blind. But, no, that was only more tears I was blinking away. Eustace was whispering something but it sounded far away, like an echo. I couldn't see, couldn't hear. It wasn't as if I gave my eyes permission to close, but they did. I didn't even feel them do so; I just saw black everywhere. I could hear the screaming and crying of the battle below. Then it was like my ears were stuffed up. There was a ringing in them. Eustace said something else. At least, I thought he had, though I didn't know _what_.

I hope you won't lose all interest in me for the rest of this if I admit I fell asleep. It wasn't a proper faint, I don't think, so I can't use that excuse. Really, I don't know anyone else who has had the misfortune of sleeping when a deadly battle is going on right in front of them, but that's what happened to me.

"Pole!"

My body was shaking. Was it another explosion?

"Pole! Pole! _Jill_!"

Eustace. My name sounded so strange coming from him.

"Jill, wake up! Come on, wake up!"

I cracked open an eyelid. "Oh, Scrubb! _What happened_?" Were we on the ground? The branch under me shook. No, we were still in the tree, then. I was rather impressed Eustace had managed not to go tumbling head-first to his death without my help.

"I don't know," he panted. "I looked over at you and tried to talk to you but you didn't answer and your eyes were closed." There were tears in his eyes. "And your fingers were all white, like there was no blood in them."

"Your lips are blue," I mumbled. My voice sounded hoarse.

That was when I noticed he wasn't wearing his doublet, only his white shirt. He had to of been jolly well _freezing_. I could still smell snow. And the air itself was quite nippy.

Where was his doublet, then?

I looked down at my hands and found my answer. He'd taken it off and wrapped it around my hands several times like a giant muff.

Primrose! Edmund! Something in the back of my head felt like it was on fire as the memory hit me like a ton of bricks.

"Eustace! Eustace!" I croaked out frantically. "Primrose is dead! Little Primrose, from District 12!"

"Yes, I know." He swallowed hard and sniffled.

"Where are the Careers?" I was looking down at nothing but an empty camp. "Cato... Clove... Peridan... The...the two...other ones... Jadis..." My tongue felt like it was flopping around in my mouth like a hooked fish. "Edmund; where is he? Did they kill him?"

"No," Eustace told me through his chattering teeth. "He got away. Lucy, too."

"Who died?"

"Nobody."

"How did it happen?"

"I didn't see the whole thing," he explained; "I was worried about you. But they got away. There was a big fight, lots of blood everywhere." He paused, biting his lower lip, looking very much like he was trying not to cry. "But Edmund used the hand attached to his bleeding arm as a kind of clot for his stomach and he fought one-handed; mostly just using his sword. Then he hit Cato with the hilt and sheathed it as quickly as he could, grabbing onto Lucy's waist. I didn't think he was going to be able to climb into the tree and pull her up with one arm bleeding and that nasty gash on his stomach, but he managed. Cato was cursing and Clove threw another dagger, but she must've missed."

"How long ago did it all..." My voice trailed off.

"Oh, about fifteen minutes."

"Are they hunting them?"

"Tomorrow. They're hunting for _food_ now, I should think."

"Can we follow them? Edmund and the girl from your district, I mean."

"Why?"

"To see if they're all right. You saw which way they went, right?" Not that I expected them to have left tracks; the Careers would have followed and killed if they had.

To my surprise, Eustace didn't wrinkle his currently beet-red nose at me like he thought I was insane. He must have been worried about the girl from his district, too. "All right."

"We can't be seen, though," I croaked. "They mightn't trust us." Also, I didn't know if we could trust _them_. Eustace seemed, by his reaction alone, to know the girl from his district at least a little better than I knew Edmund, but I wasn't going to rely sorely on _that_.

I gave Eustace back his doublet and we traveled through the trees for a few hours.

The sun was going down and we were about to give up; there had been no sign of Edmund or Lucy. No cannons, either, though; so no deaths. They were alive. Not like Primrose.

That was when I saw a boy and a girl tumble off of the lowest branch of a nearby tree and into a gathering snowbank.

They were bloody and bruised and the girl wore a gold pin on her doublet; hanging from the boy's neck was a brass pendant of some sort. It was most certainly them. Edmund from my district; Lucy from Eustace's.

Lucy started weeping; Edmund put his arm around her, wincing in pain. "Shh... It's over, it's over..."

After a bit, Lucy lifted up Edmund's doublet and shirt and put snow on his stomach wound while he held a snowball to her bloodied nose. She was still crying and shaking uncontrollably.

While the snow brought down the swelling, it didn't make the bleeding stop as well as it should have, so Lucy ripped off both sleeves of the white shirt under his doublet, tying them together and wrapping them around his middle as a sort of makeshift bandage.

When she finished, she sobbed, "I hate this... I want to go home... I can't take it anymore. I can't, Edmund, I can't..."

"Come on," he said, trying to help her to her feet. "We'll go back to the cave. You can sleep there, dream of home for a couple of hours at least."

She wrenched herself from his grip. "No! No, we can't. Prim is dead."

"It wasn't your fault," he said, choking on a sob.

"How?" wept Lucy. "How was it not?"

"We couldn't have known..."

"We have to find Gael," Lucy insisted. "She's out there alone now. If Cato or Clove or that girl from 3 whose spear you broke...if they find her, they will kill her. You know they will." She leaned her head on his good arm. "Promise we'll find her. Please..."

"We'll find her," Edmund said, reaching with trembling, blood-caked, fingers to tuck a lock of Lucy's hair behind one of her ears. "We'll look tomorrow."

"Edmund-"

"I _promise_."

"Oh!" Lucy let out a sudden gasp and her knees seemed to buckle under her.

"What happened?" Faster than seemed humanly possible, he was crouched down at her side.

"I feel so weak," she moaned. "I can't move my legs."

"Maybe we should have stolen some of that food for ourselves before we blew it up," Edmund muttered off-handedly.

"You can't carry me with that arm," Lucy told him, her voice cracking.

"Don't tell me what I can and can't do." Edmund pulled her up into his arms. The look on his face was strained, like he was in a lot of pain, but he didn't say anything about it; he just kept on carrying her till they were both out of our sight.

Eustace breathed what sounded like a sigh of relief. "At least he's taking care of her."

"And they're both going to take care of Gael," I added.

"What do you make of all that token-switching business?" Eustace asked me.

I shrugged. "What's there to make of it?"

"Nothing, I suppose." He sighed. "It's just strange. I mean, two people who barely know each other... He could have gotten away without the bloody gash on his stomach, and spared himself a lot of trouble, if he left her to Cato and the rest." He didn't say it as if that was what he _wanted_ Edmund to have done, or even as if it was what _he_ might have done in his place, he just said it like he was mentioning the time of day.

Little as I knew the boy from my district, I knew one thing about him with sudden unwavering sureness. "He wouldn't do that. He wouldn't just forget somebody who was on his side."

"Why not?"

"Because," I said, closing my eyes and inhaling deeply, "eventually, if he made it home, he would have had to live with that memory every day for the rest of his life."


	23. Chapter 23: Edmund

Johanna finally comes through and sends a basket of fruit down via parachute. (About bloody time!) Teamed up with some more bread from District 1 and a small side of baked ham, sent by Peter, we actually have a pretty decent supper.

It's been a full day. Blowing up Career camps, fighting for our lives... I bet our ratings were sky-high. No Capitol viewer could have turned away from the fine mess our explosion created.

But I don't care about that.

All I care about is how close I came to losing my ally today. Yes, I know I will have to lose her sooner or later. There can only be one victor, I keep reminding myself. But, well, this is _sooner_.

Colour and strength seem to return to Lucy following our parachute meal. Which is a relief, considering I had to carry her back here to our cave.

What I did today, leaping onto Cato's back and putting myself in danger to save her, was stupid. It's just... I _had_ to do it. I couldn't leave her like that. Blood streaming down her nose, tears in her eyes...

Yet even I'm surprised at the level of anger I feel towards Cato and Clove for hurting her. I wanted to punch Cato before, after the tracker jacker incident, but this is more intense than that.

Actually seeing them _strike_ her and draw blood...

I want to kill them.

Strong words for the Hunger Games, as well as pointless ones, since we're _all_ supposed to want to kill each other, I know.

All the same, that's how I feel. I've been trying to suppress it. Act gruff. Ignore Lucy. Act like saving her was nothing. Like the wound on my stomach is nothing worse than a bruise I could have gotten falling from a tree.

Twice, I've opened my mouth to scold her for being an idiot and staying there at the damaged Career campsite for too long after blowing it up, but nothing comes out. Just a strangled groan. I can't yell at her tonight. I can bring myself to do anything but try to comfort her and reassure her when she starts off about Gael being all alone again.

I've promised her near a hundred times tonight we'll find Gael as soon as humanly possible. She's just so worried about it. About the Careers and their allies finding her first. And I honestly can't blame her.

At least she doesn't feel as weak as she did a couple hours ago. I don't think looking for Gael while carrying Lucy around the entire bloody arena would have been a logical possibility.

We crawl into the sleeping bag together. It's time for bed. I don't think either of us can stand to watch the sky tonight and see Prim's face.

Before she's even asleep, I wrap my arms around her. Because I can hear her crying to herself again. I know she thinks what happened to the little girl from District 12 is her fault. It's not, of course, but she'll never fully believe that.

I stroke one of her arms. "Shh..." This is a new thing for me, being comforting and affectionate. It fells weird, like I'm somebody else all together.

Finally darkness drops on me like a veil. I'm all right with it, since I know by the change in Lucy's breathing that she has already drifted into the land of nod a full minute before me. She won't be awake weeping all night. We're safe together. Right here. Warm, even though it's snowing for the third or fourth time outside.

I wish we could just stay here till the Careers and their stupid allies bloody well kill each other.

Then...

No, that's madness. I don't wish that at all! That would mean Lucy and I would be a step closer to being the last two alive in the arena. And there's nothing more unbearable than that.

I wonder brokenly, though, if that's not exactly what the Gamemakers are planning.

Sure, it's still too early on to tell for certain. But, hey, they _are_ always trying to get the biggest, most shocking, finale. And what could be worse than two allies, who did everything to keep one another alive, having to slaughter each other?

I'm beginning to feel queasy.

But I'm falling asleep, plunged every faster into darkness, so I don't have to ponder over those horrid implications for long.

This darkness is welcoming. It's not exactly _gentle_ , nothing feels gentle when your torso aches and throbs like mad, but there's a sound safeness about it.

My last thought of the day, as I'm lost to the world for a few hours, is that I hope little Prim's darkness didn't take too long coming to her. That it was so quick she didn't even feel it. That she was just shortly aware of a black mist crawling over her eyes and nothing else after.

In the morning, I awake to the sound of faint scuffling outside of the cave. I let go of Lucy and crawl out of the sleeping bag, expecting another parachute of food.

To my great shock, there is no parachute in sight.

Instead, there is a bow and a quiver of arrows. A reddish-brown leaf is weighted down under the bottom-end of the quiver.

What is going on? Is this some kind of trick? Who would leave perfectly good weapons outside of my cave?

I bend down and pick up the leaf, gingerly, between two fingertips, as if I expect it to explode in my face or give me a painful rash upon contact.

In permanent marker, on the leaf, are the words: _T_ _hanks. -Jackie_.

" _Jackie_?" I mutter, raising an eyebrow in confusion. "Who's Jackie?" And why is she thanking me?

"Edmund?" Lucy has woken, finding herself alone, and is coming to see what is going on.

"Do we know anyone named Jackie?" I ask.

"Wasn't that the name of the girl from District 5?" she says as I hand her the leaf and gesture with my chin at the bow and quiver of arrows lying on the ground directly in front us.

Foxface? Figures Lucy would take the time to learn the girl's actual name, even if it was only in passing, probably when they showed everybody's scores, while I, who live in a district so close to hers never did.

These must be the same bow and arrows she stole from Jill.

But why would the fox-faced girl from District 5 want to leave me weapons? And what could she possibly have to thank me for?

Anyhow, I can't use a bow to save my life.

 _I_ can't, but _Lucy_ can.

These weapons are not for me, though the note might include me. They are for my ally. A gift to the rogue Career who took out the food supply of the most deadly tributes in the arena.

By taking out that supply, Lucy has proven herself semi-trustworthy to the non-Career tributes. For the time being, till more of us get killed off. And I'm almost certain that Foxface knows we're allies-me and Lucy. I don't know _how_ she knows, but she knows. She knows that I helped plan the explosion, and she's glad. Given, it means less food for her to steal. But she must have good sponsors (for a tribute from 5, at least) if she's willing to part with a weapon that could be an extremely useful hunting tool.

Wait, if she left the bow and arrows _here_ , she also knows Lucy and I are living in this cave. That isn't good. I don't want _anyone_ in the arena to know where we sleep.

I will have to be careful to keep a sharp eye out for Foxface (Jackie, whatever... You know what? I kind of still like Foxface better...) so she doesn't try a sneak attack on us when the competition has dwindles down a bit.

She won't kill us if she doesn't have to, but I don't think she'll think twice about it if the Gamemakers should suddenly choose to take out the Careers and their allies. That would leave only Lucy and I with the highest scores in the arena.

Killing us would only be common sense at that point.

Thinking back to our one and only conversation, I remember what Foxface told me. That I wouldn't see her if we crossed paths again. She was right. Our paths had crossed, she had left an unexpected and invaluable gift, and I hadn't been out fast enough to catch even a glimpse of her.

A chuckle escapes me. I can't stop the corners of my mouth from turning up.

"Ed?" Lucy puts a hand on my arm, lightly, as if concerned.

"I'm fine," I assure her. It strikes me that this may be the first time she's ever called me 'Ed'. The familiarity in her voice makes me feel strangely warm inside, as if we are both back in the sleeping bag, snug as anything.

"What are you laughing at?"

I shake my head. "Oh, nothing." I sigh, watching her bend over and pick up the bow, an expression that is grateful, mystified, and oddly trusting embedded on her face. "We had better get an early start, Lu," I add, following her nicknaming lead.

My cheeks feel hot and I hope desperately that I'm not coming down with a fever. There are few places worse to be sick in than a Hunger Games arena.

Before leaving the cave, I make sure our supplies are all carefully hidden. I'm not putting it passed Foxface to rob us. Giving us the bow has ended whatever debt she thought we were owed in return for taking out the Career-stock tributes' food supply. And she might even justify stealing from us. After all, we have a bow now-a hunting tool-and she no longer does.

I bring along my sword (never know who we might run into out there) and the electric torch I pilfered from Lucy's backpack after I rescued her from the tracker jackers.

It's cold and Lucy sticks very close to me. She keeps up well. Even when I, either by choice or simple absent mindedness, walk more briskly. If she wanted to, she could tilt her head less than an inch or so and it would land on the side of my shoulder.

A question comes into my head. Perhaps we know each other well enough now that I can ask it without shocking or offending her. "Do you remember, at training, when you tried to take on that archery professional and Peter had to pull you away?"

Lucy cocks her head cautiously, eyes widening a bit. "Yes."

"What did she say that upset you?" Something to do with her brother, obviously, but that's the extent of my knowledge.

At first, I think she is not going to tell me. And I respect that. I'm not offended. After all, there are some things better left unsaid on public television. But then she says, "Well, it's a bit of a long story."

I nod in a manner I hope is encouraging and not curt.

"See, we... We disagreed, me and her, on something small, to do with archery. Then she got cross and started saying a lot of other things." Lucy's eyes seem almost to darken with frustration at the memory. "She said..." She swallows hard before she can go on. "She said that... That her cousin's latest son was-"

Thoughtlessly, I step on a twig, making a loud _snap_. She stops talking and looks round for the source. Once I've convinced her it's all right, no one's sneaking up on us, she continues.

"...Was Peter's bastard." She shakes her head and tucks a strain of hair behind one ear. "I told her she could say what she liked about me, but not blacken my brother's name."

What a witch that archery lady was, I think, grinding my teeth.

That is just not the sort of thing you say to a young girl who is about to be thrown into an arena to fight for her life. Not the sort of thing you say to somebody- _any_ body-regarding the one person they've got left to trust. Lucy's whole world was falling down. How could somebody be that insensitive? I mean, yeah, I'm not exactly pleasant and thoughtful all the time myself. But even _I'm_ not _that_ lacking in tack and social niceties.

"But she insisted it was true, and she said that Peter probably has loads of them he doesn't even know about." She clenches her jaw tightly, then releases it. "That's when I tried to hit her."

"Oh," is that all comes out of me in response. Because Lucy's so innocent-minded, it's more than a bit awkward having a conversation based around this particular subject.

"Ahh!" Lucy lets out a scream and lurches to the right.

A tribute has come from behind, grabbed her arm and twisted. Twisted so hard I'm afraid he might just snap it like a twig if he keeps it up.

It's the 'dwarf' from District 5. The only one small enough-aside from Gael or Jill-to have been able to get so close to us without us noticing. It was me that snapped that twig, yet, ironically, somebody _had_ been sneaking up on us exactly as I was telling my ally such was not the case.

I haven't seen him since the first day, practically. I'd more or less forgotten him. And here he is, out of nowhere.

His mouth looks gross, like he's been eating raw meat or perhaps some fruit with dark red juice. His eyes are wild, and his dark hair's disheveled with bits of crumbled brown leaves stuck to the side of his head.

"Get off her!" I roughly pull at the back of the tribute's doublet, but when he doesn't let go right away, I feel my other hand drawing out my sword.

The next part happens so quickly. I get in a slash, blood pours from a wound I've just created in his left leg. He lets go of Lucy at last, throwing her to the ground a few feet away.

He's got a knife and he almost cuts off a piece of my knee before I, bending over, drive my sword into his back. I don't want to kill him, not really, but there's nothing else I can do. He's trying to kill both me and Lucy, and I have to protect her... I mean, protect _us_.

Lucy is panting and trembling as his small corpse falls, face-first, to the ground close by her. Going by how pale she's gone, I'm half expecting her to faint. But she doesn't, and I reach out my hand to help her back to her feet.

The dead District 5 tribute's cannon booms.

That's when it hits me, with full impact, that I have just taken a life.

Yes, I was responsible for Emeth's death and, in a way, for Prim's, since it was my ally that accidentally blew her up. And I didn't help Lasaraleen, so if I want, I can count her, too.

But none of those were quite the same as this.

My hand has splattered speckles of hot blood from his back on it. My sword is stained red. A poor deformed boy of only eighteen lies dead on the ground. He's dead because I killed him. I pushed the sword into his back till all the life went out of him.

I hate this. I agree with Lucy. I want to go home. I want to go home now. Right now. This is too much, too real. I want to go home. Home, to District 7. I want to crawl in my own bed in my own room, pull the covers over my head, and never come out again.

Mum and Susan must hate me. Or fear me. I can't decide which is worse. Not that it matters. I can't face them after this. They've seen me, not just fighting this time, but _killing_. _Murdering_ somebody.

In self-defense, yes, but still.

Suddenly I remember Lucy's story about Peter being 'tired' when he came home from his Hunger Games, not interacting, just wishing the world would disappear. Now I think I understand exactly how he felt.

Because, if I could walk home right this second, I know I couldn't even look-much less _talk_ -to anyone.

People who have never killed anyone in their lives will never know how it feels. They will never know how much it hurts. What it takes out of a person. But I know. And I won't ever be able to forget.

You feel like screaming your lungs out but don't dare make a single sound. Actually, you _can't_. Your breath is stuck in the middle of your throat. Everything, each individual nerve in your body, throbs. It doesn't feel real. Then it feels _too_ real. This happens over and over.

You keep telling yourself that it wasn't your fault. That you had no choice. None whatever. It happened fast. There was nothing else to be done.

And you keep saying over and over in your mind, "It's going to be all right," and the only answer your mind gives you, softly almost, is, "No it won't. You took a life. You killed someone. Nothing will ever be all right again."

But, somehow, faster than seems possible, things just, well, _go on_. Plain and simple.

A body still feels hunger after killing. A body still needs to stop and relieve itself in the bushes after walking four hours. It's funny how killing can change so much about regular life and so little at the same time.

Around what I judge to be noon, Lucy uses her new bow and arrows to take down a rabbit and a wild goose. We take the corpses with us, but even though we're bloody starving we don't stop to eat. Neither of us is sure it's safe to risk a fire out in the open. Cato and the rest would come like a shot if they caught even a glimpse of smoke. They hate us more than ever. Our lives would be over before we could say Jack Robinson.

It gets later and later. Twilight falls over the arena and I can tell that Lucy is despairing of finding Gael today.

Except, I promised her. I've got to do something... Something to make it happen. To find the girl from District 4 and deliver her safely into the care of my District 1 ally.

Stupidly, trying to blasted well come up with an idea, I flick the little on/off switch on the electric torch back and fourth. I pay no mind to the fact that I'm being a bloody idiot, wasting the battery.

_Light goes on. Light goes off. Light goes on. Light goes off. Light goes on. Light goes off. Light goes on and passes over a white, child-sized, pinky finger sticking out from under some leaves less than two inches away from the toe of my boot. Light goes off. Light goes..._

Hey, wait a minute!

"Look," says Lucy, stepping forward. She's seen it, too.

The finger extends into a full hand, poking out of the leaves.

"Gael? Gael, it's me. It's Lucy."

I shine the light from the torch right in the gap in the leaves. They're in a hollow I realize. Possibly even the same hollow I slept in my first night in the arena.

Gael crawls out on her hands and knees. She's a deer in the headlights, all wide-eyed and pale with terror.

But she goes to Lucy without a second thought. She doesn't think about if she can trust her or not, she just goes. She throws her arms around the middle of the girl from District 1 and clings to her.

A lump forms in my throat.

It only gets worse (tears threaten to come) when Gael hugs _me_ next.

She remembers, I think brokenly. She remembers I got Prim out of the net and let her go. Gael _trusts_ me. She shouldn't. Of course she shouldn't. We're all in here trying to kill one another, after all. And I didn't get to know her at training, not like Lucy did. We have no ties to each other. But trust me she does. Gael's trust is a gift, like Foxface's bow and arrows, and she gives it to _both_ of us-me _and_ my ally-freely.

Lucy explains everything. Confessing to being the cause of Prim's death as well.

I stand there numbly, listening, turning the torch off and staring hard at the metal rim in the rum lighting.

Gael still willingly sticks with us. Her blame never falls on either of us. She walks with us back to the cave. Together we all risk a fire and cook our goose and rabbit. Which, when ready, we eat in absolute silence.

Tonight, Gael and Lucy will take the sleeping bag. Lucy offers for all three of us to share; Gael even pipes up that she won't take much space. But I decline the offer. I don't know that I'll be getting much sleep tonight anyway.

I have a lot to think about.

Soon I'll see the face of the tribute I killed today in the sky.

I go down to the stream to wash my sword. I keep my eyes peeled for the Careers and their allies, but they don't show. That new day job Lucy and I provided for them-of having to actually hunt for their meals, as opposed to just aimlessly hunting other tributes-must be keeping them busy.

The face of the 'dwarf' from District 5 lights up the sky and I draw in a sharp breath. I've been preparing for this moment all day. I'm ready for it. Tears don't come. Nor anger or even guilt. Just another bout of numbness. This is as close as I'm going to get to closure.

Upon returning from the stream, I sit at the mouth of the cave, looking out at nothing.

Lucy somehow gets out of the sleeping bag without waking Gael and asks If I'm all right. I assure her I am, that I'm just keeping look-out for a bit. After all, Foxface might come back. Or another tribute might find out we're here.

"Do you want your pin back?" Lucy asks me after a long pause.

"No, keep it," I say. It looks better on her than me anyway. "Do you want your locket?"

"Why don't you hang onto it?" she offers, patting me on the shoulder and going back inside the cave. "We still have two more explosives. Who knows? We may need to separate and blow something up again."


	24. Chapter 24: Jill

A scream rang through the part of the woods I was hunting for rabbits in and I started, whirling around, arrow on the bow-string.

"Scrubb?" I called to my ally.

It had sounded like a _girl's_ scream, but with Eustace one could never be wholly certain... Eustace was supposed to be gathering; looking for more blackberries. I hoped he was all right.

"Scrubb?" Nothing came in reply. "Eustace?" My heart beat faster; there was a ringing in my ears and I couldn't make myself swallow. "Eustace, you answer me right now!" I insisted hoarsely; I knew I sounded like a mother scolding a wayward child, but I didn't care.

Then I caught sight of him, from the back, calmly leaning against a tree.

I prepared to rush over and give him the tongue-lashing of a lifetime for scaring me by not answering when I called him, going over every single harsh word in my head, determined not to let him off the hook for giving me such a fright and then not seeming even to care; but when I came closer, finding myself at his side, and saw what he was looking at, everything snapped back into perspective and I forgot about the scolding entirely.

Not far off, Lilliandil, the girl tribute from District 6, was lying on the ground; her eyes half closed. Her lovely face was ghost-coloured, drained of all blood and crinkled up from pain in a manner which was highly visible, even from a good distance, and she was whimpering softly to herself.

At her side, was a long green snake; certainly poisonous. Except it wasn't going to being hurting anybody else, on account of its head was severed from its body by what looked like a sharp gray stone, currently embedded, sharp-end first, in the dirt by the dying Lilliandil.

Eustace told me later exactly what had happened. Lilliandil had taken off her boots, presumably to examine a blister, when a green snake came and bit her on the heel. Ash arrived as fast as he could, doing what was quite possibly the bravest thing he'd ever done in his life, going after the snake with a sharp stone in an attempt to, if not save then, at least, _avenge_ , his ally.

But as for the girl herself there was nothing that could have been done. She was fading fast. It was her scream I'd heard.

"Ash," croaked Lilliandil, tugging on the front of his tunic, as if making sure he was listening to her.

"I'm here," he whispered, his voice muffled by a stuffed up nose. "I'm right here."

"Will you do something for me?"

He nodded and squeezed her hand.

"Take my token before the hovercraft comes," she said, her eyes drifting to the blue-gem ring dangling from the silver chain on her neck. "Win and go back to District 6. Give my token to Caspian, when you get out of here; he'll know who to return the chain to."

Ash wept harder, fumbling awkwardly with his chapped, red-from-cold fingers to continue clinging to her hand. "Lilli, I can't win. I can't... You know I can't do it. This arena _will_ become my deathbed; there's no way out. I'll never get out alive."

"You've made it this far," Lilliandil told him, reaching up and patting his cheek. "Keep on surviving. They won't kill you if they don't find you. Make them forget about you, weed each other out till you're all that's left. Then go home and live your life."

She seemed to be desperately trying to add something else on to that last bit, another final bit of advice for Ash. As long as there was life left in her, her lips moved soundlessly. But her body was shaking with violent spasms and, when she finally became still, she never stirred again.

I had, unobserved, seen this alliance formed; I had not thought I would see it end the same way.

No, not _exactly_ the same, for after the life went out of Lilliandil, her cannon echoing at ear-splitting volume through the trees, Ash turned his head and I knew, unlike the time before, he saw us.

He saw us both standing there, clear as day.

We stood frozen in place, not sure if we should try to flee (we were in the middle of a death-game, after all) or else speak to him. He was a foreign tribute, without any tie to-or truce with-District 1 or 7. But there was nothing about him that seemed dangerous and we'd just seen his one tie to home-to his district-torn from him. In another life, perhaps, we might have enjoyed speaking to him; he might have been really nice for all that I'll never know. He might have been somebody worth comforting.

He stared straight at Eustace and me. His face was red and puffy and his spectacles looked smudged and fogged-up in the sunlight; one lense had a patterned crack reminiscent of a spider's web branching out from the centre.

Eustace met his eyes and kindly mouthed, "I'm sorry."

Ash nodded.

I said nothing. What was there to be said? Nothing I could blurt out would bring his ally back.

Anyway, we all needed to clear out as quickly as possible; we knew the hovercraft would be coming soon for her body. And Ash had to take off her necklace and ring _now_ if he wanted to honour her dying wish. Otherwise, her token would be taken out of the game with her. The Gamemakers _might_ return it into the trust of her mentors, but there was no way of knowing for sure.

We left him there, walking side by side speechlessly for hours. Suddenly neither of us felt up to hunting and gathering, hungry though were still were. I almost ate some berries absentmindedly when I noticed a bush looming in front of me, but then I figured out where we were; near the stream. They were the poisonous ones. Best not to eat those. I left them alone and sighed, blinking back tears. My sponsors might be wondering why I was crying-perhaps it even put them off-but at the time I didn't really care. I was sick of seeing people die. It wasn't fair! I didn't want to see any more faces in the sky. I wanted this to be a bad dream; to wake up on the morning of the reaping and find that none of it had ever happened.

Except, even if I had gotten my wish, I still would have been fearful of my future. Awakening on the morning of the reaping might make my bad dream a reality anyway, trapping me in a dark spiral of deaths I could never escape.

That was what Ash said: "I'll never get out alive."

Perhaps that statement was true even of a victor. How could a person be truly alive after so much bad had happened? How could the world go on? It did, of course, but not in a way that made sense.

Then I found myself thinking of my ally, glancing over at him.

If none of this had been real, I would have never met him. I realized then that I wouldn't have been at all glad of that.

But that's the thing about the Hunger Games. Go to a new place, live a different kind of life, learn new skills (if you're talented enough to pick up on them in three days time), meet new people...then kill them...

What _was_ the point? What did this teach any of us districts about not rebelling? Why did we need to have 'we can kill all your children-or, better yet, have them kill one another-at the push of a button' hammered into our heads every year?

If the people who ran the Capitol back when the districts rebelled were this tyrannical, was it any wonder they wanted to be separate from them?

Then again, did the people of the districts have the cleanest hands themselves? If _they_ had been the ones to win the war, would they, by way of constant punishment, have forced Capitol-bred children fight to the death?

I didn't know.

The more I saw in these games, the more I realized, I didn't know _anything_.

My knowledge of the war-everybody's knowledge of it, really-was patchy, plain black and white; and now that I knew what death was like, I knew that couldn't be true. There were two sides to every story. There were two sides to the rebellion that caused all of the pain and suffering I was going through. And all the districts ever heard was the Capitol's side.

To them, we were the bad ones, the villains out of some made-up fairytale, who needed to be taught a lesson.

And, at the time, for all I knew, it might have been the truth; we district children might have been descended from criminals, or worse.

Only, all the same, it might _not_ have been...

It wasn't fair we were being punished for their sins, I'd felt that much keenly from the start, but if we were being punished for them having the right idea-the one we were all too afraid to imitate because of the Capitol's sure and swift retribution-that was even worse. It made them martyrs, and us, their children seventy-seven years later, cowards. We were sacrificing our lives to everything they fought _against_! But, oh, it was too confusing! After all, they'd given up first. The Capitol won and they surrendered. So weren't _they_ the real cowards? But that wasn't fair to them, either. At least they had tried. What had we ever tried, except to suck up to, and curry favor from, the Capitol (or at least _pretend_ to)?

I wished suddenly that I could ask Eustace about all these things. He might be shocked, appalled even, but he was also smart; he might have had something to say about all the thoughts bouncing round in my head, if only I dared share them.

He was from District 1; one of three major Capitol loyalist districts. But that wasn't what kept me from asking. I knew, if I said anything about it, the Gamemakers would kill me. The Capitol would make sure they did. Saying such things on public television without any subtlety or hint that I was joking or else driven mad by fear was a pen in my hand signing my own death-warrant.

Yet, I swore to myself, then and there, that if I made it out alive, I'd find somebody I could trust to ask. Not my parents-I was too scared to involve them. And I knew they wouldn't have any answers, even if I _would_ take such a risk with them, so it would not only be cruel but also completely pointless. But maybe Eustace's mentor, Peter Pevensie, knew something deeper about the rebellion and why the Capitol won. He seemed smart; like a person that listened more carefully than generally expected when others talked around him. I didn't know if I could trust him not to sell me out to the Capitol for treasonous speech, but if I lived, if I was the 77th victor, I would become a mentor just like him the following year, and perhaps, by then, even if he proved useless, I'd find _somebody_ clever and tight-lipped in the mentors' circle to privately voice my questions to.

I looked at the silver ring on my thumb. Would I ever even see a real horse again? Or would a 'natural' disaster, a poisonous animal, or a blood-thirsty tribute see to it that I never did?

The uncertainty made my stomach hurt and the water in my eyes linger.

Eustace drew in a sharp breath and grasped my wrist.

We'd made it to an oak tree close-by the stream.

At first, I thought Eustace's fear was of a tracker jacker nest in the oak tree, but then I noticed that the nest looked abandoned. The tracker jackers weren't living there anymore.

Then I looked down, following Eustace's gaze, and saw her.

A bruised body with a broken neck. Her red hair was a dead give-away as to who the latest dead tribute was. She was the girl from District 5. The night before, I'd seen the boy from five in the sky. Now I knew they were both out of the game.

"What happened to her?" mumbled Eustace.

"She must have fallen out of the tree, landing right on her neck." My own mortality pricked at me and my mouth tasted like copper. I had the feeling that she _knew_ about climbing and trees, and she'd still fallen and gotten herself killed. The same kind of thing could happen to me-or Eustace, who could just _barely_ keep his balance on a branch without assistance-at any time.

"Her cannon..."

"It could have gone off at the same time as the one for the girl from District 6," I pointed out.

He nodded. "Pole?"

"Yes?"

"We're dropping like flies."

"I know."

"One death yesterday," he said, pointedly, "two today."

"Yes..." I said, not wholly understanding what he was getting at.

"Before that, Edmund and Lucy, they didn't get killed," he went on, eyebrows raised.

"Yes, so? A fight held the crowd."

" _Right_. A fight held the crowd. They didn't need to kill anyone... _two days ago_..."

Then I understood; my chin trembled. "Things are-I mean, _were_ -moving too slowly."

"We're all going to be dying off faster now."

"Eustace..." I shuddered, feeling like I wanted to throw myself to the ground and curl up in a ball, pressing my knees against my chest. "You don't think...?"

"What?"

"District 5," I said. "Both of them...gone..."

"Uh-huh..." Now _he_ was the one not catching the drift.

"Then District 6."

"Yes..."

"What comes after six?"

"Seven." He stared at me for nearly a full minute, horrified. "No, Pole, it's a coincidence."

"But what if it's _not_?"

"Pole, seriously, think about it, your theory makes no sense. You and Edmund both scored high; the Gamemakers don't want you gone yet."

"Edmund got the eleven, not me." I felt a sob escape from my throat.

"Eight is a good score."

"Not as good as the Careers' scores," I said brokenly. Then, in a more level tone, wiping my nose on the back of my doublet sleeve, "Well, except yours."

"Be reasonable," he told me, ignoring the last part of what I'd said, "even if your theory _was_ true (which it's not), you still wouldn't be the next target."

"Then who would be?"

"Ash," he said, shrugging. "The Gamemakers would find some way to push him in the direction of Cato and the rest. He's from District 6 and still alive. Six comes before seven, remember?"


	25. Chapter 25: Edmund

You know, it's funny, how running for one's life makes petty things not matter as much.

Yeah, it's a cliché, a definite cliché. But it's also true.

Take right this minute, for example.

I'm running for my life, my two allies (one of them a fourteen year old who still manages to look no more than twelve when she's scared, and the other who really _is_ only a dozen years old) right behind me.

Oh, and did I mention, we're in the bloody _hedge maze_?

Yeah, that's right, the one we all came up into on our first day in the arena. The one Foxface (who, according to what I saw in the sky last night, is now dead) unintentionally showed me how to climb out of.

Before the girl from 3 spotted us filling our canteens at the stream and started chasing me, I was actually really peeved at Lucy for something. This incredibly stupid argument we had about how long squirrel meat needs to be cooked. Anyway, I realize I must have been a real ass about it, because, honestly, going on what I've learned about Lucy in the time she's been my ally, she rarely-if ever-holds grudges for longer than ten minutes in a row.

But now I'm not angry at all. I just want to get her (and Gael) out of this safely.

There's just one problem. This tribute hates me. I've got the same score as her, she's allied with the Careers (all of whom also hate me-with the exception of Lucy, I _think_ ), _and_ I broke her electric spear.

Translation? I am _dead meat_.

And as long as Gael and Lucy are following me-as long as Jade whatever the rest of her name is remains within spitting distance of them-they are marked for imminent death, too.

Lucy is breathing heavily. Gael is beginning to lag behind. Twice, I've looked over my shoulder to see Lucy practically _dragging_ her along. (She has the bow and arrows Foxface left us, of course, but in order to use these weapons, she has to let go of Gael's hand, which clearly she won't-can't-do. Not with how close behind us the girl from 3 currently is.)

I may have a painful stomach wound that I worry might be showing the beginning signs of a bad infection (inflicted on me by the same mentally unstable tribute who has chased me all the way from the stream to the inside of the blasted hedge maze) which might need medicine I can't get here in the arena unless a sponsor would care to help me out (ahem, Johanna!), but I can still run faster than them; my legs are longer. I'm bigger and stronger than they are. I have a better chance of surviving this alone.

It is _me_ the scary girl from 3 wants. If we separate, she'll go after _me_ , not them.

"Go down the other path," I shout at Lucy over my shoulder. "Hide there. You know the place to find me again." _Our cave_ , I think, _survive this and meet me at our cave_.

"What?" She looks at me in disbelief. "I'm not leaving you."

"You _are_ ," I shout-insist. "I'll see you afterward."

"If-" she begins, sobbing.

"No _if_ ," I remind her loudly, my voice cracking. "Just see you afterward. _Remember_?"

There is no time to argue, the girl from 3 is gaining on us. And though I know Andrew, Peridan, Clove, and Cato are somewhere in the hedge maze too (I've heard their voices, shouting back and forth to each other, I've just been lucky enough not to run into any of them yet), and there's the chance Lucy could take a wrong turn, accidentally meet up with one of them, and possibly be killed, it's still better than knowing she and Gael _will_ be killed.

Which is what's going to happen if she doesn't take Gael and abandon me right _now_!

The next time I turn around, glancing backwards, Lucy is gone. She's obeyed me. The only person behind me is the girl from District 3. As I suspected, she hasn't gone after Lucy and Gael. She's let them go.

I'm not so lucky. I run into a dead end, next turn I make. Oh, bloody horse manure! Dash it! What am I going to do?

 _Climb_ , says the voice in my head, _obviously_...

This time, I can't test every place with the back of my wrist as Foxface did, and I have no one else's movements to copy. I scrape my hands several times and feel burning pain. The gamemakers think this is funny, I'll bet, watching me hurt myself and have potentially poisonous prickers shred my hands to ribbons.

The girl tries to climb after me, holding her knife in her mouth, but her face twists in annoyance as pain shoots through her white hands, now stained red with blood.

Her blood flow dripping from her hands is actually worse than mine, I notice. And it's slowing her down.

I'm already on top of this hedge maze wall. I can't get out of the maze (we're somewhere close to the middle, not on the outer edges), but I can see a lot of things.

Most importantly, I can see where the Careers are in relation to where Lucy and Gael are.

It's getting dark, and I consider turning on my electric torch so I can keep track of everybody's location better. But, then, that would be akin to shining a beacon in the eyes of the angry District 3 Jade-girl and shouting, "I'm here, come and get me!" So I don't.

That's when I hear gunfire.

My heart leaps into my throat as I'm scrambling along the hedge wall. Lucy! The gunfire wasn't far off from where I saw her and Gael running.

Unless my ears are playing tricks on me.

I finally spot Cato, pistol in hand, chasing a tribute. But it's not Lucy or Gael. It's somebody I didn't even realize was in this maze to begin with.

It's the boy from District 6.

I know the girl from his district is dead now. Going by the glint of fading sunlight on his neck, he's wearing her token.

Lucy is coming up behind Cato, though neither of them realize it. She has an arrow on the bow-string now, ready to use, and Gael seems to be keeping up with her all right in spite of the fact that they're no longer holding onto each others' hands.

I hear a grunt and whip my head around.

The girl from District 3 has fallen while climbing. She seems unhurt aside from her bleeding hands, unfortunately, but this gives me even more time to scale this wall and find a way out.

Also, time to watch what's going to happen with Lucy, Gael, Ash, and Cato without the fear of being stabbed in the back by this creepy girl climbing up behind me.

Cato and Ash are fighting. Ash is taking some hard-knocks. Cato, sadistic monster that he is, has seen fit to hit Ash repeatedly in the face with the pistol, shattering his spectacles (one lense of which was already cracked) and blooding up his nose and lips. Because, apparently, this is more fun than just shooting him and getting it over with.

If he beats _Lucy_ with a gun like this, I swear on everything, I will tear the sorry son of a female dog limb from limb.

In a sudden twist of fate, Ash has gotten hold of Cato's gun. His hands tremble as he prepares to pull the trigger.

Probably, he can't see too well. He's in a sorry state. But even Ash can't miss at this close of range.

Cato doesn't move. He stands there, staring at the boy from District 6 with an eyebrow raised, as if to say, "Go ahead, try to shoot me, you idiot. You know you'll mess up."

Ash's hand tightens around the pistol.

Cato looks a bit more concerned. I guess, though I can't see it clearly from up here, the look on Ash's face has tightened and he's holding the gun more steadily now. He still has it pointed too low, but injuring Cato is better than leaving him completely able-bodied. This will give Ash a chance to escape (and perhaps time for Lucy and Gael to turn around and go back the way they came before they're noticed).

 _Bang_! The trigger is pulled, and it seems as if Cato is about to get a shot straight to his upper thigh.

But then, without warning, the boy from District 2 darts out of the way at the last possible second.

The bullet strikes a tribute who is standing behind him. The tribute is much shorter than Cato. The bullet that would have ended up in his leg hits her stomach.

In the enveloping darkness (the gamemakers, it appears, have made the arena's sun set faster than usual for dramatic effect) I think it's Lucy who's been hit and I actually, from shock and terror, fall from the hedge wall and onto the ground at the feet of the tribute with blood on her doublet.

My back is hit, full impact, and as the pain lessens and I'm able to think again, I come to four conclusions. All drawn from things I've heard simultaneously while falling.

One) Cato has fled; two) Ash is still here, gaping in horror at what he's done; three) the girl from District 3 is going around, with Clove, to meet up with us over here so they don't have to climb; and four) I was wrong about who Ash shot.

It wasn't Lucy.

The little girl from District 4, a stunned look on her small, pale face, puts her hand to the lower part of her doublet. Drawing her hand back up to her face to examine it, she sees it is visibly covered with thick red blood that looks black in the darkness.

My brain registers that it heard, but was momentarily unable to process, Lucy's voice screaming, "Gael!" at the top of her lungs.

Ash's fired-off bullet is in Gael's stomach.

Gael crumbles to the arena ground.

"No!" screams Lucy, dropping to her knees and putting her arm around Gael, propping her up against her lap.

"I didn't mean to..." Ash whimpers.

I bend down beside Lucy, looking at poor Gael gasping for breath.

How can anyone be entertained by this?

If an accident like this happened in the streets of any of the districts (or even the Capitol) there would be people crying and doing everything they could to save the dying kid. But because this is on the telly, it doesn't matter. It's all right. They can let her die.

And the worse part is I _know_ that's what they're doing.

If they wanted to, they could save her life. They could send in the hovercraft, full of doctors and medicines and surgeons and anything else. But they won't. She will die here, and everybody will watch, enthralled, unable to look away.

"I have one bullet left," says Ash, looking oddly determined.

I twist my neck to look over at him. "You've only got the one shot. It will take more than that to bring down Cato."

"It's not for Cato," says Ash, clenching his jaw and bringing the pistol to his head, pressing it against his temple.

"Don't, please!" cries Lucy, clutching Gael tighter still.

"Listen," I say, "it was an accident. Don't pull the trigger. Just get out of here."

"Killing yourself won't fix this," Lucy bawls. "It won't make things any better."

Ash lowers the pistol, and it glints in the fake moonlight. I think he is listening to us. I wait for him to run. But then I see he's pressed the pistol against the left side of his chest-exactly where his heart is-and is pressing his finger against the trigger more determinedly than before.

"I'm so sorry," he says, and shoots himself.

A raspy gasp comes out of Gael, and Lucy's face is soaked with endless tears.

I'm in a state of disbelief. I can't believe he actually did it. That the boy who was expected to have no kills actually has had _two_ before going out with a bang.

Himself. And Gael.

Because Gael is not going to make it. I've known it from the second I saw her blood-stained hand and the expression on her face as she regarded it.

If I could, I'd give my own life in exchange for that of this girl who wants to grow up to be just like Lucy. The world doesn't need me as much as it needs more people like Lucy and Gael. Even if they are Careers. But I can't do anything. I can't trade my life for that of the little girl dying in front of me.

Ash's cannon booms.

I decide on a whim to take Lilliandil's token off of his corpse. If I live through this, I'll return it to Caspian. I can't get the image of the two of them making out by the elevators out of my head.

"Lucy," I say, "we have to get out of here. The girl from District 3 and Clove are coming... I heard them, when I fell... And Cato could come back at any second. He saw you, he knows you're here." And he wants her dead. "And he must know I'm here, too." He wants me dead even more.

She looks at Gael. "We can't leave her alone."

Even though she's going to die, I can't bear to leave her behind any more than Lucy can. So I pick up the dying District 4 child in my arms and carry her as we run together, trying to get out of the hedge maze.

I can't climb and carry Gael at the same time. We will have to find our way out naturally. No cheating.

Thankfully, after only a few minutes of running into dead-ends, Lucy sees a way out (it seems one of the tributes must have cut a hole through the hedge, possibly on the first day, so they could get out into the open) and we all but _fling_ ourselves through it.

"You didn't think you'd get away that easy, did you?" a voice behind us says.

It's not the girl from 3 (I know that because my skin doesn't start crawling the way it tends to whenever she speaks), but it _is_ Clove from 2.

She's alone, for the moment, but Careers and their allies _do_ hunt in packs. Besides, I know I heard her talking to the girl from 3 when I fell from the hedge wall. So, naturally, an added attack could come, not from the front or behind, but from the _side_. From the others a less paranoid tribute might not have even suspected were so close at hand.

My arms are full. I don't even know if the girl in them is still alive. I haven't had a chance to stop and check. Not that it matters. Since I know, one way or another, the life is going out of her. But I won't drop Gael to fight Clove.

It's up to Lucy. She fires an arrow at Clove and hits her in the arm. Blood pours out and, shouting in pain, Clove drops the dagger she's been holding. And we're-Lucy and I-both running as fast and hard as we can.

The last voice I hear before we've gotten away, out-distanced them for the time being, is Cato's. He was close at hand. (I'm almost positive the other planned side attack was the girl from District 3.)

Best I can tell, he's angry that Clove has a bloody arm. Though whether it's Clove he's angry at, for not being invincible and getting herself injured, or else Lucy for shooting that arrow into her arm, I can't be sure.

Once we're as safe as we're going to get, I gently sink to the ground and place Gael down.

"She's not-" begins Lucy.

"She is," I say softly, shaking my head. "She's gone, Lu." Gael died in my arms. Sometime during our escape from the hedge maze.

She may have already been dead before we got out through that hole.

But it's not till now, now that I've put her on the ground and am not clinging to her, that the gamemakers allow her cannon to sound, confirming what I've just said to Lucy.

Lucy buries her face in her hands and leans heavily against a tree, shaking with sobs.

My face is soon damp with tears, too.

I already miss Gael. She wasn't with us long, but, stupid as it sounds, having her and Lucy in that cave with me was like having a family- _being part of_ a family-again. Together the three of us weren't so alone anymore. I tell myself over and over again that these are the Hunger Games, any sense of family-like ties, even among allies, can only bring misery and (even more likely) madness. But I can't help it. Just like I can't make the tears on my face dry up or make myself not want to comfort Lucy.

The best I can manage is to kneel there, blinking up at the arena sky, arms pressed hard against my side.

Only, as soon as the seal of Panem appears in the sky, I bow my head, as if on cue.

I will not look 'triumphantly' at the sky when Ash and Gael's pictures appear. I will not look at them shown as nothing more than a face and a district number.

Treated that way, their faces become _anybody's_ face. And Ash and Gael weren't just anybody. Ash didn't belong in the Hunger Games; he was out of his depth. And Gael was too young.

 _I_ am too young.

No, I'm not, I'm old enough not to condone this.

Whether I live or die, I can say nothing against the Capitol, but I can do this. I can turn away. I can say, with my body language, that this is not right and I do not accept it _willingly_.

Lucy must be peeking out at me through her fingers because something seems to strike her when she sees how pointedly I'm looking away from the sky. She swallows hard and runs to the base of a tree where all these little blue flowers are growing. Intently, she begins to pick and gather as many of these as her arms will hold.

Next thing I know, she's at Gael's side, weaving the blue flowers into her hair then placing the one with the longest stem in-between two of the little corpse's dead white fingers. Then she takes the petals off of all the flowers left over and drops them down onto Gael's chest.

Nodding at each other, we link hands and walk away.

We move quickly enough, I suppose, but not as though we're in any particular hurry.

It's as if we're saying (to the hovercraft, to the Capitol), "All right, _now_ you can take her." Now that we've shown she wasn't just another playing piece in their sick games.

Back at the cave, I begin to wonder if I've misjudged Johanna's value as a mentor. Because less than an hour after our return, a basket of roast chestnuts, a strong, smelly wheel of cheese so unprocessed that it could only have come from a rural place like District 7, a bunch of grapes, and a sleeve of fig-filled cookies floats down via parachute.

Sure enough, as I suspect from the first glimpse of the food, the parachute has my district number on it. So I know it wasn't Peter who sent us this.

It's a big basket, enough to feed us for three days. I know it must have cost a fortune for our sponsors to buy us this much food so late in the game. Johanna must have pulled all our resources together for this. Not one, but _several_ , sponsors have paid for this basket.

Darkly, I wonder if the reason the Gamemakers were willing to let Johanna's large gift come through now is because they've gotten the show they wanted, with Ash shooting himself and the youngest career tribute dying in the arms of the poorer tribute who scored an eleven.

We can take three days off. We've given the Capitol audience something to gossip about. And we can just wait like good little tributes till they get bored again and want more blood.

I hate this. I hate this. I hate this.

"I wish I had my violin here," Lucy says, pulling her knees to her chest.

"What?" I say, my mouth full of roasted chestnuts.

"My violin," she says again. "There was this song, a funeral song... I used to play it all the time when I was first learning. But, then, Peter told me what it meant-and that there were words to it-and I didn't like it so much anymore. Too depressing. But, it _is_ beautiful. I wish I could play it for Gael." She sighs, closes her eyes, and inhales deeply. "And Prim and Emeth." Exhaling, she adds, "I feel like I owe them that much."

"They'd never let you," I say. "Even if you had been allowed to have your violin as a token, instead of your locket..." The locket still hanging from my neck. "They would never let you play that song on this show."

Early the next morning, a District 1 labeled parachute lands in front of our cave. A polished violin is strapped to it. This is even more expensive a gift than our basket of food, the one keeping us from leaving the cave to hunt.

Has a sponsor with a soft spot for dead little girls heard Lucy's request for a funeral song in remembrance of her friends and sent it to Peter?

This could not have been a spur of the moment gift. No single sponsor could have paid for this. Which makes me wonder if Peter himself is actually behind this.

I mean, all he'd have to do is lie, "Oh a sponsor sent this," and flash a harmless smile or two at the gamemakers, then play innocent till they let the gift through, unsuspecting.

Of course, if he gets found out, he'll be in a whole lot of trouble.

And, if Lucy plays her funeral song and it moves the stone hearts of the Capitol-bred folk, he'll be blamed even if they can't prove he bought the violin himself. He'll be punished for sending it through in the first place. Because he's the one in charge of all sponsor gift deliveries to his district's tributes.

But, perhaps, he thinks there's nothing worse they can do to him that they haven't already.

His little sister is in the Hunger Games, after all.

Still, I can think of _one_ thing worse they can do to make Peter Pevensie suffer.

They can kill Lucy, make sure she never gets out of this arena alive.

But if they want her, they'll have to go through me. She's _my_ ally. I haven't ended the alliance. They can't kill her off. I won't let them.

Lucy is in tears, stroking the wood of the violin. I watch as she runs her fingers over the strings. I see her lift the bow and begin playing.

I am look-out. My task is to make sure none of the other tributes hear her playing and come this way. In fact, I even walk as far as the stream to make sure no one is in hearing-distance.

They aren't, thankfully.

All I can think is that I've never heard anything so sad and beautiful in my whole life. And, for the first time, I understand what it is Lucy loves about music. It's like something alive yet invisible. Something you can _feel_ as intently as you hear it.

Even though I've heard Tumnus making up songs before, nothing he ever wrote has touched me like Lucy's heartfelt rendition of a simple beginner-level violin tune.

I think back to the day of the reaping, Tumnus and his song about the Hunger Games. I imagine what it would be like if a tribute were to play _that_ here.

Lord Snow would probably have the entire arena blown up before the second verse.

What Lucy's playing now is rebellious enough. What we did with the blue flowers and pointedly looking away from the sky was pretty bad, too. Yet, those things are helping me understand better why Tumnus took the risk of singing that song when he did.

When the song ends and Lucy puts the violin away, neither of us know what to do next. We feel like we've done all we could, but also horribly empty at the same time. At least, I know _I_ do. And I assume from Lucy's dejected face that her thoughts are similar.

Even though it's only midday, we crawl into the sleeping bag together and I wrap my arms around her. It's warm and safe and since we're not hungry we have no reason to leave the cave.

Mostly we're just sort of quiet, listening to the birds chirping outside the cave or the sound of the wind blowing through the nearby trees, but every once in a while we have a whispered conversation.

Lucy tells me that she's always wanted to see the ruins of Cair Paravel. The place that was in charge of Narnia before the Capitol-before Panem. She says it so softly I'm sure the microphones haven't picked it up. And I'm glad of it. The Capitol would have been furious. On the heels of the violin and the flowers, it would have been too much, Career tribute or not, for them to let slide.

"Maybe you will," I reply softly. I think the sound system in our part of the arena has picked my voice up, since it was a little louder than hers, but that's all right. I didn't say anything wrong. _I_ didn't mention Cair Paravel.

On our third (and final) day of staying inside the cave and avoiding any contact with the other tributes, I find myself staring at Lucy.

My opinion of her has changed so much since we first met, even since we first became allies.

I realize now that I want _her_ to win these games. Not me. And that's not even the worst part.

What's the worst part?

I'm in love with her.

No, I think. No, no, _no_! I don't _want_ to be in love. Not with _her_. Not with my ally, not with any other tribute in these games.

This doesn't even fit in with anything I am. I'm Edmund Martin, fifteen year old tribute from District 7. Everybody knows I have a life back home. I have a girlfriend. There is nothing for me in this arena. It's nothing but a game. A game I have to win in order to go home.

But I don't see how I can just go home after this. I can't return to my old life. I can't drink with Johanna anymore, because I've learned why she drinks. To blot out the memory of the games. To blot out the dying faces that are far, far worse in person than as seen on the telly every year. I can't act like I care about Anne, because I _don't_.

Anne Featherstone? My girlfriend? Yeah, here's the thing... I don't even _like_ her anymore.

The old me, the boy who's name was drawn in the reaping, could find _some_ things he enjoyed about being with her. The boy who fell out of the chariot during the opening ceremonies, the boy Caesar Flickerman interviewed, he was less accepting of Anne, more annoyed with her, but he could still pretend he had feelings for her. But the person I've become in the arena can't stand her.

I don't want to be with somebody who thinks even remotely like the Capitol. After all I've seen, how can I possibly court a girl who's idea of a life-threatening disaster is her newest dress being ironed the wrong way by an incompetent maid?

I wish it were Lucy waiting at home for me. That she'd been born in District 7 and we'd met as children. I'm sure, if that had been the case, much as I would have stubbornly resisted at first, once the fact that I loved her crept up on me there, I would have never wanted anybody else. I would have been a better person for it, too. And if I'd seen _Lucy_ cry for me at the reaping, I would have drawn strength from that. I would, right now, want to win more than anything. Not for the fame or wealth. Just so I could see her again. So we could have a chance of ending up together.

Here, in the arena, we're doomed.

Only one of us can win and go home. And no one will ever understand how much it hurts. Because, why should it? We didn't grow up together. We weren't from the same district. We barely knew each other. We are just game pieces. Aside from being allies, what right will either one of us have to mourn the other when this is over?

"Edmund," she says softly, coming over and putting her hand on my shoulder. "Are you all right?"

I grasp her wrist and pull her down to my level. "Lucy," I breathe.

"You're crying," she says, her voice full of concern, blinking at me. "And shaking."

I lean forward and press my lips against hers. She seems stunned, but she doesn't pull away or slap me or anything.

One of my arms slips around her waist, holding her tightly. My palm presses against the small of her back. My other hand traces her face and neck with my fingertips. And all the while I'm kissing her over and over again as if I don't ever intend to stop.

Her arms link behind my neck. She's holding onto me, same as I'm holding onto her.

When our lips finally part, she says, sort of bashfully, "I've never been..." Her voice trails off.

Yeah, I sort of figured. Not because boys wouldn't _want_ to kiss her, just because she's so innocent and childlike that it's probably not the first thing boys think of when they meet her.

I mean, come on, I thought she was _twelve_ the first time I saw her.

Also, my guess is Peter would have had a fit (or possibly an aneurysm) if a boy back in District 1 even _hinted_ he was romantically interested in his baby sister.

And if an over-protective brother who was recently seen _killing_ people on television doesn't scare the boys away, trust me, _nothing_ will.

If I'd been born in District 1 and fallen in love with Lucy _there_ , she probably would have had to grow her hair long enough for me to climb up the side of the Pevensies' house by it. Let's just say those Mockingjays of hers wouldn't have been the only frequent morning visitors on her back porch. Because I seriously doubt Peter would have let me anywhere _near_ her under normal circumstances.

But before I can say anything, somehow we're kissing again.

Even though Lucy's not the first girl I've ever kissed, she might as well be. Kissing her feels so different from kissing anyone else. Especially Anne. And, I have to admit, that was actually one of the _good_ parts of my relationship with 'the girlfriend'. Well, except the time she kissed me goodbye after more or less forcing me to take her gold pin with me to the Capitol as my Hunger Games district token. That was just plain annoying. Which was why I let that peacekeeper slam the door in her face. I'd do it all over again, too. Not that Anne Featherstone can take a hint. Somebody disliked something _she_ did? Oh, no, that's quite impossible, apparently. But, _anyway_ , kissing Lucy isn't at all like that. It isn't laced with selfish pleasure or flashes of brief annoyance. It's more like kissing a best friend. Except not creepy.

We don't stop till a voice startles us and we break apart, practically jumping out of our skins.

It takes a second or two, but we finally realize the voice is not a tribute sneaking up on us in our cave. It's an announcement being made to the entire arena. This happens from time to time in the Hunger Games, some years more often than others. Usually to invite tributes to a gathering so the viewers get a better and faster fight.

After three days of an eleven-scoring tribute doing almost nothing but lie in a sleeping bag with his arms around his ally (unless you count when when I was eating, leaving the cave to relieve myself, or just sitting beside Lucy staring at nothing-which I don't, because it's equally boring television programing), this doesn't surprise me.

The novelty of seeing Gael shot and Ash commit suicide over it has officially worn off.

" _Congratulations_ _to the remaining contestants of the 77th Hunger Games,"_ the voice booms. " _There has been an exciting rule change. If the last two tributes in the arena are from the same district, they can both win. That's right, there can be_ two _victors this year! May the odds be ever in your favor_."

Lucy looks at me, a shaky half-smile forming on her face. "There can be two victors, we can both..."

"Lu," I say, swallowing hard, "we're not from the same district, remember?"

The news sinks in. Her expression goes from hopeful to confused to broken-hearted in less than a half-second. She bursts into tears. "Oh, Edmund!"

I can't even look at her. Can't be in the same cave with her. Not after seeing her reaction. I can't handle her pain at realizing that even with a new rule, a new hope, there is still no way we can both live.

As fast as my legs will carry me, I run out of the cave and down to the stream, where I grunt and throw endless pebbles and rocks into the water as forcibly as I possibly can.

Then I press my back against a tree and grit my teeth.

There is no way around what's to come, even though it's the most painful thing I have ever had to do.

I have to end our alliance.


	26. Chapter 26: Jill

" _If the last two tributes in the arena are from the same district, they can both win. That's right, there can be_ two _victors this year! May the odds be ever in your favor._ "

Nothing like it had ever happened in the Hunger Games before. I was so surprised I dropped my bow.

About two days earlier, when Eustace and I saw the Gamemakers set up a contained wildfire, which caused a fleeing Ash to run into Cato, I hadn't been surprised at all.

I'd felt _afraid_ , certainly, because I thought I was next.

Ash, after all, had appeared in the sky that night-along with Gael from District 4-and so I knew they were dead, though not how it happened. I'd figured Cato-possibly with the help of his allies-must have killed them, and I'd been waiting ever since then for the Gamemakers to drop something on my head or lead a Career tribute right to me.

At first, I had tried sharing my fears with Eustace, but he seemed aggravated whenever I brought it up, insisting I didn't know anything and was speculating about a bunch of nonsense. I realized, later, that it was because I was scaring him with my constantly-on-edge, white-knuckled, waiting-for-death mannerisms even more than I was scaring myself.

I had envisioned fires, landslides, ambushes from the Careers and their allies, even mutts with foam and hot blood dripping from their enormous fangs and muzzles, but I had never anticipated an announcement with a rule change.

In seventy-seven years, there was no record I'd ever heard of even a small rule in the Hunger Games being changed.

I figured such was probably the case because, aside from the fact that there could only be one winner, there weren't very many rules to begin with; therefore not much to revoke.

Yet, that's what the voice had said: there could be _two_ victors.

Yes, two victors, for the first time _ever_ in Hunger Games history; but _only_ if they were from the same district.

That ruled out Eustace and me. If we were the last two in the arena, we'd still have to kill each other.

Did the Gamemakers expect me to go and team up with Edmund, because of the rule change? I knew that was most likely what District 7 would expect of me. He was no longer a threat to me, and his family-if nobody else-would want me to respect that. And I wanted to help him, if I could, for his sister's sake; to repay her for her kindness in taking care of my father when he was ill.

Only, I barely knew Edmund Martin, and Scrubb- _Eustace_ -was the ally I'd gotten used to; I didn't want to simply abandon him.

Except, what of that Lucy-girl from District 1? Eustace cared about what happened to her, I knew he did. Why should I hold him back from teaming up with her? Their mentor, Peter, I was sure that was what he would want.

Was there any way, I wondered, that the four of us could team up? Sort of like a Career pack? Fighting off anything that came our way until...

Until _what_ , exactly?

Until it was only the four of us left?

No, that would be too hard. It would be like messing up in the wrong place on a crossword puzzle written in dark, unfading ink; no way to fix it, no way to win, and no way to lose, either; nothing but a muddled, wholly not-allowed, impasse.

"What do we do now?" Eustace asked, sort of quietly.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. "What if we just think about it for a little while?"

"You want to find Edmund, don't you?"

"I don't know."

"Yes, you do."

"No, I don't."

"He'll be a better ally than me, that's what you're thinking."

I scowled. "It is _not_!" I huffed, bending down and picking up my bow.

"Come on, Pole, you're always picking on my low score," he pointed out. "His eleven... The two of you could win."

"Shut up, Scrubb." His comment would have frustrated me much less if it weren't true. I had-a little too often, perhaps-harped on his four. And our alliance was formed more out of need than pure choice. I'd very rarely thought seriously of how that made him feel.

"No, I will not shut up," Eustace snapped unexpectedly, glaring at me. "If you don't want me anymore, I'd rather hear you say it now, to my face, than have you give me the silent treatment for a couple of days, trying to figure out how to end this."

He didn't understand how valuable he'd really been to me. I mean, he had gotten by on little more than his wits; nobody expected a tribute with a four to live this long in the arena.

Unfortunately, when I mentioned this, he took it the wrong way entirely.

"See, there you go again," he said bitterly, his expression hurt.

"Why do you have to do that?" I demanded.

"Do _what_?"

"Act like everything anybody says about you is automatically an insult," I sighed. "Honestly, Scrubb, if you stopped being so...so..." I was beginning to stammer. "Well, if you would just _stop_ it, maybe people would like you better."

"Oh, so now people hate me?" He arched a pale eyebrow and folded his arms across his chest.

"I didn't _say_ that!"

"You implied it."

"That's exactly what I'm talking about!" I exclaimed, shaking my head at him. " _That_ , right there! You know what? I don't think it's people that don't like you, after all; I think it's _you_ who doesn't like people."

"What has that got to do with anything?"

"It has everything to do with everything!" It didn't, really, but I was feeling stupidly determined to win our little quarrel.

I couldn't explain it, but, ever since that stupid announcement, this overwhelming sick feeling that I was losing him for ever had started to wash over me and it made me so cross I just wanted to _hit_ something-or some _one_ -or at least tell off whoever was near at hand (even if it wasn't their fault); which, obviously, was only Eustace.

"Don't be an idiot."

I flared up at that. "I am not an idiot! _You're_ an idiot! And hostile, too!" Stamping my foot, I added, "I'm sorry you hate people, but that's no reason to-"

He cut me off. "I don't hate people." Then, muttering, he added, "I'm not too keen on _you_ right now, however."

Tears welled up in my eyes; I couldn't keep up this whole facade of being angry with him. It wasn't _him_ I was furious at. The gamemakers and the government; _they'd_ done this to me-to us.

"Jill..." The tone of his voice changed completely. "Don't cry..." He reached for me and his hand almost touched my cheek.

I don't know what would have happened next if he'd made contact, because, right before his palm could press against the side of my face, we heard voices and started scrambling for the nearest tree.

Part of me was suddenly terrified of falling, for the first time in my life, after seeing the corpse of the girl from District 5. I had never been afraid of heights before, but that image of her poor bruised body with the broken neck haunted me. It was Eustace who was strong for me then; he seemed to understand straight-off what was bothering me and he even grasped my waist to steady my shaking body when I quivered while gripping a branch a little too thin even for somebody as light-footed as myself to cling onto for very long.

"We could have both lived!" cried an anguished voice. "She didn't have to die!"

"You're acting as if _I_ killed her," another replied.

I saw two fair-coloured heads below me, which I quickly registered as belonging to Cato and Peridan.

"You _moved,_ " said Peridan, his voice cracking slightly. "If you hadn't..."

"What did you expect me to do?" growled Cato. " _Let_ that four-eyed moron shoot me in the leg?"

"You should have never let him get his hands on the pistol in the first place."

"So you blame me for what happened, do you?" Cato's hands shot out and grasped the front of Peridan's doublet, pulling the District 4 tribute's face close to his.

"She was a little girl, dammit!" shouted Peridan.

Cato shoved him away, almost knocking him down. "You wouldn't be saying this if it weren't for that announcement."

"You're right," he said; "I wouldn't."

"So?"

"So what? She could have stood a chance and she's dead, because of you."

"What are you going to do?" Cato scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Kill me?"

"You think I'm so dense I don't know that this whole rule change is probably to give you and Clove a chance to win together?" Peridan asked, his voice not shaking so much all of a sudden. "I'm not going to steal that from you."

" _Yet_?" Cato's eyebrows rose so high up on his face they seemed almost to touch his hairline.

"Yet," agreed Peridan. "We're still allies for now, after all." He swallowed hard and closed his eyes. "After the tributes from 1 and 7 are gone, you and me team up against Jadis. We can't trust her. She'll turn on us in a second."

"No arguing with you there," Cato said, shrugging.

"I don't want to kill the District 1 tributes," Peridan told him.

"Cold feet?"

"No, I just don't feel like it."

"Clove and I will take care of them, but only if you take care of Andrew and that boy from 3 when the time comes."

"Wait." Peridan's eyes narrowed. "That leaves me, on my _own_ , against you _and_ Clove."

"Nobody ever said reality was pretty," snorted Cato apathetically. "Besides, do you really think that little girl from your district would have been a match for Clove?"

"No," he had to admit, his tone grim. "It would have been on my shoulders to win for us anyway."

"There you go."

"So, I take out Andrew and the boy from 3, and I don't have to touch either of the tributes from 1?"

"Clove wants the girl from 1 anyway," Cato informed him. "I promised she could have her if she gave the audience a good show."

Peridan grimaced and went a bit green in the face, as if he might be on the verge of taking ill. "I see," was all he said to that.

"But there _is_ one other condition to all this."

"What's that?"

" _I_ kill Edmund Martin."

Peridan didn't appear even remotely surprised. If anything, he seemed a bit irritated that Cato had to bring up something so obviously already all but written in stone. "Well, if Jadis doesn't first, right?"

Cato cocked his head. "She had her chance with that spear, and she blew it. Now it's my turn."

"Fair enough," sighed Peridan.

"You know, it'll almost be downright unpleasant," Cato said, clicking his tongue and putting a hand on Peridan's shoulder. "Killing you when it's down to the final three."

"I'm sure you won't be crying any tears for my sake," Peridan grunted.

"I'll try to make it as quick as possible."

"Ooh, _special treatment_ ," Peridan said sardonically, shaking off Cato's grip. "You must like me."

Cato smirked. "Don't go getting a big head."

"I'll try not to," sneered Peridan.

"Cato?" Clove's voice called.

"We're over here!" he called back. "We're fine."

"Well, hurry up! Jadis killed four rabbits. We're going to light a fire."

Their arrogance infuriated me. Any non-Career tributes would never, not in a million years of these unfair games, be able to shout such information so carelessly. Not without getting themselves killed, they wouldn't. And here, the Careers and their savage allies were shouting about eating and lighting fires. I hated them. I should have _already_ hated them enough for everything else, not least of all that they wanted-even Peridan (he had expressed not wanting to kill Eustace or Lucy, but he'd said nothing of the sort regarding _me_ )-to kill me, but it was their wastefulness and cocksure attitude that irked me the most. It always had been like that with them, right from the start. It simply rubbed me the wrong way and I couldn't get over it.

Eustace's stomach growled.

I sighed.

If he hadn't unwittingly let Lucy and Emeth get away during his first day in the arena, would he still be with them now? I wondered. Would he be gathering firewood and preparing for a meal with them at this very moment?

I decided he probably wouldn't have been. Eventually, he would have done something to upset the others and gotten himself expelled from their alliance.

In a way, we were lucky it happened when it did, straight-off; because it brought us together. That one mistake, his letting the girl from his district go, had resulted in company for us both.

If it hadn't happened, either of us might have been dead-or else completely and utterly _alone_ -right then; and, at the time, scared and confused, sitting in that tree, I couldn't make my mind up about which was worse.

Only, it made the whole issue with the rule-change even more distressing.

What were we going to do? How long could we go on like this, trapped in a nerve-wracking alliance limbo, so to speak?

Save for my racing thoughts and pounding heart, it was a boring evening that followed in the arena. I killed a squirrel, after we got down from that tree, but it wasn't very much substance divided between the two of us. Eustace _did_ surprise me by offering me most of his own small portion, even though I knew he was famished and could have eaten more than twice that amount of food were it more readily available in the arena, but I turned it down.

In the morning, Peter sent us some stew, and Johanna sent a small stash of raisins. We ate the raisins for breakfast and saved the stew for luncheon and supper, doing our best to make it last as long as possible.

The air was still and quiet. Occasionally it got muggy, only to cool off within the hour. No natural disasters plagued us; and there were no further signs of the Careers and their allies.

In fact, sitting by the stream that afternoon, I felt my eyelids get heavy and lazy. My subconscious seemed to have forgotten where I was and almost let me fall asleep in the open before Eustace shook my shoulder, reminding me to keep on my guard.

I had heard no cannons that day, but I had the feeling something-somewhere else in the arena-was happening. Something very dramatic and captivating, probably. Something to hold the Capitol's home viewing audience.

That was when I heard the same voice that had announced the rule change bursting through the arena's hidden speakers all over again.

I'd heard, in passing, back at the Training Center, that the voice who addressed the tributes in the arena with announcements belonged to a man named Claudius Templesmith. I found myself wondering, if this Claudius person became an Avox, would anybody be able to recognize him? Everyone in Panem-the districts and the Capitol alike-knew his voice by heart, even if they couldn't remember his name; but would anybody know him if he was suddenly rendered mute? The notion made me wonder if even people from the Capitol stood on dangerous grounds. Perhaps there were other kinds of reapings in the world, ready to take out a person's name and destroy them whether they deserved it or not; maybe not all reaping bowls were made of materials so tangible as glass.

Was Claudius revoking the rule? I wondered, a mite disgusted with myself for almost wishing he _would._

" _Listen up, Hunger Games' contestants! This is important. I'm addressing you all to invite you to a special feast at the cornucopia this evening, around dusk_."

Please, I thought, how stupid do they think I am? As if I would go running into some free-for-all with the Careers and their allies! And for _food_ , no less! After Eustace and I had already gotten fed by our sponsors earlier?

" _Now, some of you may already be declining this invitation_ ," the voice continued.

"No fooling!" mumbled Eustace, under his breath.

I bit back a smile and choked down a giggle.

" _But, each of you needs something desperately. Most of you know what that something is. However, not all of you do. Think hard. If you can't think of anything, possibly that something you need is an extra blanket or sleeping-bag. Because it's going to be extremely cold tonight. And not all of you are currently equipped for this forthcoming temperature change."_ He paused to let that sink in. " _At the feast, each of you will find whatever it is you need-or_ will _need-most in a backpack with your district number on it. Consider carefully before deciding not to show. For some of you, this could be your last chance. May the odds be ever in your favor_!"

Eustace looked at me. "So," he said, a bit sheepishly, his brow furrowed with anxiety. "Which of us goes?"

I thought about it for a moment. "Both of us."

Because, I realized, whatever happened, there was no way I was going without him.


	27. Chapter 27: Edmund

I don't tell her right away.

I can't.

It should be easy. I should be able to say, "I've decided this alliance is over, no use letting it come down to the two of us. Erm, no hard feelings, District 1?"

But it isn't. It isn't easy at all.

I take one look at her and I realize more than ever how much this is going to hurt. Hurt _both_ of us.

It would already be painful enough, if all I had to say was that it was over, then walk away and never look back, but all that kissing earlier has made a clean break impossible.

So it's far, far worse than just that.

How can I leave her like this? Knowing that, when it comes down to it, she won't kill me to save herself, alliance or no alliance.

She's too loyal. If she considers us still friends, even after I tell her to get out of my cave and not come back, and the game comes down to us and only a few others, I'm afraid she won't fight if she thinks it'll help me win somehow.

I don't know, not for sure, that she's in love with me, as I am with her. Still, I can guess at her feelings for me to some extent. She wouldn't have let me kiss her-or have kissed me back-if she didn't care about me.

Then again, I doubt I ever _really_ cared about Anne and I kissed her a number of times.

But Lucy isn't like me. I don't think she has it in her to be that callous.

What I do know, is this can't go on.

I don't want her doing something stupid, like running into the midst of the Careers, if something happens and she hears me scream after our alliance is over or whatever.

That is not what a victor does.

And she has to win these games. Go home. See her brother again. See her Mockingjays on the porch in the mornings. Perhaps see the ruins of Cair Paravel on her way back to District 1.

She can't have any of that if she doesn't win.

So, while, all night, I let her believe we're still a team, let us be allies for just a little longer, wrap my arms around her like nothing's changed as we lie in the sleeping-bag together, I'm planning, first thing in the morning, to do the most spiteful, absolute worst, thing I can think of.

I've decided to let her down.

She wakes up, suspecting nothing. She smiles at me, friendly as ever, and asks when we're going hunting.

" _We're_ not," I say emotionlessly. "I'm going hunting alone."

"How?" Lucy blinks at me. "You can't use the bow."

"I'll figure something out." I shrug. "I have my sword, anyway." Though how that helps me, I have no idea. What animal is going to be dumb enough to let me walk up to it with a sharp object and run it through?

"But why can't I come?" she wants to know.

"Because," I say, sucking in a sharp breath, "I think it's time this alliance ended."

The colour drains from her face.

"You said I could decide when," I remind her callously, as if I don't care.

"Ed-" she begins, taking a step closer to me. I bet she is thinking of all that kissing yesterday. "What about... I thought you...we...us..."

Now here comes the meanest part. But I have to be strong. For her. Perhaps this isn't my only option, but I can't come up with anything better, so it stands. Even if I'm making the worst mistake of my life, it will be worth it. Because it _has_ to be. For Lucy.

"That didn't mean anything," I get out, feeling like I'm sticking a knife into my own stomach and slowly, painfully, twisting it further and further in.

"But," blurts Lucy.

"I mean, it's not like we're a couple or anything." It's official. I am the biggest ass that ever lived. "You know I have a girlfriend, back home in District 7." Oh, bother! Anne Featherstone must be _loving_ this. I hate myself. I just _do._

Lucy's face crumples and her eyes fill with tears. Because, of _course_ she knew that. She heard the interview like everybody else. But when your emotions are running high, you don't think about that sort of thing. And I very rarely brought up 'the girlfriend' in our conversations.

She could easily have forgotten Anne Featherstone's existence.

Golly, I wish _I_ could!

"I can't believe..." Lucy murmurs. "I can't believe I thought..." Her fingers stray to the gold pin. My token. Which she's still wearing. It's as if she's trying to get some kind of reassurance out of the little golden bird. A reassurance-and an explanation-that never comes.

As far as she'll ever understand, I used her. She will think I never loved her-never even _liked_ her-and that, all this time, I've been in love with somebody else.

I take off her brass locket, reaching behind my neck to untie the little knot in the thread and hold it out to her. "Here."

She takes off my pin and, tears streaming down her face, places it in my out-stretched hand after taking back her locket.

Making sure my sword is securely at my hip, I turn to leave.

"Edmund!" she calls after me. "Just because we're not... I mean, it... It doesn't mean... There's still a lot of tributes left. We can still be allies." She bites her lower lip, then releases it. "We still need each other."

"I don't need you anymore."

Her face, that same crumpled expression still on it, recoils with hurt. "Well, maybe _I_ still need _you_ ," she sniffles.

I turn halfway and give her a firm stare, clenching my jaw, my hand resting on my sword hilt. "Don't be here when I get back."

As soon as I'm a good enough distance away that I know she can't see me, I sink with my back against a tree and bury my face in my hands.

Now the only allies I have left are me, myself, and I.

And you know what? I hate them.

I can't be allied with _me_. I hate me!

Saying all that stuff to Lucy... I know _why_ I said it, why I _had_ to say it, but part of me will always wish I hadn't. Maybe selfishly (brought on by _already_ missing her so much it feels like I'm only half a person), since holding back wouldn't have protected her, yet I'll be wishing it all the same. For the rest of my life. However short it happens to be.

_Oh, my sweet Lucy, I'm so sorry..._

The sound of raspy coughing distracts me from my inward suffering and I leap to my feet, sword in hand.

"Take it easy, squirt."

It's Heath from District 3.

At first I'm just sort of blinking at him absently. If anything, I'm annoyed by his interrupting me. I'm in the middle of mourning over the loss of the love of my life, for pity's sake! Can't I have five bloody minutes to myself?

Then it hits me. Heath is from District 3. The same district as the scary girl who sliced open my stomach with a broken spear. And, with the change in the rules, they're probably working together.

Sure, he doesn't exactly seem to be at the peek of good health. He's coughing quite a bit. Kind of reminds me of those pathetic daytime movies Susan gets all emotional over, where you know from the first scene when you see the character basically hacking up a lung that the kid's not going to be in the sequel. But, just like what's shown on the telly, Heath's symptoms could be an act.

I leap up and knock him down, flat on his back, before he can try to kill me. "I know how to use this sword," I say, pressing my knee hard into his chest. My sword's blade is up against his neck.

"How nice for you," wheezes Heath, sounding somewhere between grumpy and trying to suppress a laugh. "Now can you please get off me?"

"Why should I?" I demand. Honestly, I should probably just lop his head off. The last thing I need is _another_ mad person from District 3 who wants me dead roaming the arena freely, planning my painful demise. I mean, yeah, he's only got about as much chance of killing me as I have of killing him-perhaps even _less_ , with that cough, if it's real-but _still_.

"Because of this!" He punches me in the face with one of his fists, throwing me (and my sword) backwards, off of him.

A thin stream of blood pours out of my nose. "Thanks a lot," I growl, standing up and putting the back of my free wrist to my bloodied nostril.

"You jumped on me with a sword," he coughs, wincing and shaking the hand he hit me with. I guess he must have hurt his knuckles on my face. "What was I _supposed_ to do?"

"I won't let you and your ally kill me," I tell him through gritted teeth. Yes, I'm determined to die in this arena, so Lucy can go home, but I will never give the girl from 3 the satisfaction of being the one to bump me off.

"What are you talking about, squirt?" he asks.

I really wish he would stop calling me that. "I'm talking about the girl from your district, numbskull! Didn't you hear the announcement?"

"No way am I being allies with Jadis!" he says vehemently.

"Why?" I ask suspiciously, lowering my sword, but only halfway.

"She's _insane_!" exclaims Heath, breaking out into another coughing fit.

"So? Why should that matter to you? You can both win now."

"No, you don't understand, Jadis is completely out of her mind. She wants to win this on her own. She doesn't care what our district thinks; she'd kill me the second she saw me."

"What makes you so sure?" This is a stupid question, and I don't entirely know why I'm bothering to ask it. One only has to _look_ at this Jadis-girl from District 3 to know the answer.

"I _know_ her," he says slowly. "From home. I didn't like her there any more than I do here. She murdered her own sister and got away with it."

I feel myself shudder involuntarily. "Really?"

He nods. "I wouldn't lie to you."

"You wouldn't?" I say cautiously, raising an eyebrow. Why is he trying to earn my trust?

"I want you for an ally," he tells me.

No. Absolutely not. I don't want another ally.

"I'm sorry," I say shortly. "I can't help you."

"Are you going to find the girl from _your_ district, then?"

I shrug. "I don't know."

"Well, what do you say to being allies until you decide?"

I shake my head. "I don't think so."

"I'm a good trapper," he coughs. "I've got hidden animal traps so discreet the Careers haven't even stumbled across most of them yet."

"A reason for me to want you for an ally," I admit. "But not a reason for _you_ to want _me_."

"Listen, squirt," he says, "I think I'm sick; _really_ sick... This cough, it's been getting worse and worse. My throat feels like it's on fire. Last night I was so stuffed up I almost wasn't able to breathe. If the Careers find me and catch me at the wrong moment..." He swallows hard and his facial muscles flinch from the effort. "They won't hesitate long enough for me to hit them-not like you did."

"You want protection," I realize. He needs somebody to watch his back.

"In exchange, you get easy meals from my traps," he reminds me. "I usually get quite a bit better in the middle of the afternoon. I'm still stuffed up and my throat still hurts, but I can function and fight better then-at least, these last two days, I could. It gets worse at night, when it's cold, and in the morning."

"We'll try it for a day," I give in, rolling my eyes in irritation.

"Thanks, squirt," says Heath, giving me a tight grin. "You know what? You're all right."

"I _do_ have a name," I tell him, my tone peevish. "It's Edmund. Edmund Martin."

"Can I call you Ed?"

"Sure." I slide my sword back into its scabbard.

"Eddie?" he jokes.

I scowl and tighten my fingers warningly around my sword hilt, taking a step closer to him.

" _Kidding_ ," he assures me.

"So, what do _I_ call _you_?"

"Just Heath would be fine."

"Yeah, so, uh, Heath... Do me a favor, all right?"

"What?"

"Don't tell me anything about your family or your life back home in District 3, and I won't tell you anything about mine in seven, deal?" This is the only way I can stand having another ally. Getting to know Lucy was my first mistake in this arena. I should have put my emotions in check early on, as soon as I'd felt myself starting to care about who she was and where she came from. And I can't stand the thought of having to kill somebody I've come to know. If he has a family back home watching the games, waiting for his return, I don't want to learn any of their names.

If Heath and I need to help each other out for the time being, fine; but the less we know about each other the better.

"It's a deal." Heath nods, understanding. He breaks into another coughing fit, but this one is slightly less raspy than the one before it.

We spend the day together. And, because of our agreement, learn practically _nothing_ about one another.

We eat together, walk together, climb trees to look for fruit (no such luck, and Heath turns out to be a rather lousy climber), and once I even agree to look out for Career tributes while my new ally takes a half-hour's nap.

When he wakes up, he tells me his throat feels better, and his cough seems to have improved. But he still looks rather flushed after an hour's walk to one of his traps. A meal does us both good, though, and no Careers spot our small fire.

Things are going as well as can be expected when a new announcement is made.

All remaining tributes are invited to a feast. Where, not only will there be food, but each of us apparently needs something desperately, and we're told we will find that something there in a backpack marked with our district number as well.

I know right away what I need. I've become increasingly sure my stomach wound is infected. I need medicine or a balm of some sort to clean it out properly. Lucy did her best, with that snow, but I need real medicine, and I know now I won't be getting it from my sponsors. My one chance is this feast.

Heath has the same problem. He needs medicine, for his cough. There is no way he can just not show up to the feast, either.

We agree, straight-off, that whichever of us goes to the feast will grab the backpack from the district of the one who stays behind. The only thing that worries me about this is I'm nervous that, in a characteristically cruel twist of fate, the gamemakers will have only one backpack per district. Meaning I might have to fight off Jadis to get the medicine for Heath.

Why did I ever let myself get another ally? I hate my life. I just _do_.

It's going to be me. How could it _not_ be? With Heath's hacking cough? As if _he_ could really sprint out there and grab both our backpacks without getting himself killed!

"What if I distracted some of the Careers so you could make a break for the hedge maze and get to the cornucopia more easily?" Heath suggests.

"With your cough..."

"They don't know we're allies, Ed," he reminds me. "At least, I don't think so. If I distract them, they won't know I'm helping you. But they don't really want me. I have a better chance of getting away without being pursued as relentlessly. If they see _you_ out there, they might even be willing to be late for the feast so they can kill you first. And you have a better chance of getting those backpacks. You have an eleven and you're not breaking into coughing fits every five minutes."

"We have to agree on a meeting place," I say.

"The stream?"

By Jove, does _everybody_ in this bloody arena know about that blasted stream? "Sure." I'm not willing to tell him about my cave. Not yet, anyway.

"Well, I had better get moving," Heath says grimly. "Good luck, squirt." He reaches out and ruffles my hair. Which both annoys me and-to my great surprise-causes a lump to form in my throat.

Heath makes a lot of noise and lights a few small fires with absurd amounts of greenwood. I make my way to the hedge maze. According to the announcement, the feast begins at dusk. At this rate, being careful, I'll get there just in time.

Reaching the hedge maze, I get in, not through a proper entrance, where I'm most likely to meet up with another tribute, but, instead, through the same hole that I carried a dying-or possibly already dead-Gael out of the last time I was here.

Slowly making my way to the cornucopia, I run into three dead-ends before coming to the wall beyond which I know the feast awaits. I decide to climb to the top and get a look at what I'm up against.

Like last time, I scratch up my hands pretty bad, but aside from that, and one knee that smarts when a pricker slices through my tights and digs into my skin, I reach the top completely unharmed.

To the right of the cornucopia, a wooden picnic table has been set up. It gleams with beautiful, well arranged, food. The smell is enough to make me dizzy, in spite of the fact that I had a fairly decent meal with Heath not too long ago. On the long wooden benches, on either side of the table, are the promised backpacks.

I wonder if I am really the first one to arrive or if there are others nearby, hiding and trying to decide what to do.

That's when I see a small figure come running out into the open and grab a backpack.

My heart beats like a drum. It's Lucy. I recognize her the second she reaches the table. And, even before that, I strongly suspect it's her. Because of her obvious slight frame.

She has her backpack thrown over one shoulder and is running away before anybody else has even decided to announce their presence at this feast.

She got away, I think, almost hyperventilating as I watch her vanish into another part of the maze.

I'm going in.

I climb down from the hedge wall and, sword out, walk carefully towards the clearing and the table.

Nothing can catch me off guard. I'm all eyes and ears and speed.

Till I hear a cannon boom. And I know, somewhere in the arena, a tribute is dead.

I don't have time to ponder over who it could be, I need to keep moving.

Another cannon. Another death.

Keep moving, just keep moving...

I get to my backpack and grab it.

Yes! Now to run away from here and meet Heath back at the stream.

Oh, wait, Heath! That's right. _His_ backpack. I run for the other side of the table, since the District 3 backpack isn't on this side with mine.

Suddenly something with the impact of hitting a brick wall at a hundred miles per hour knocks me down.

I blink and try to get up.

But the tribute who has knocked me down won't let me.

"Well, well," says a dark, very self-satisfied, voice. "If it isn't Edmund Martin from District 7."

"Cato," I growl.

Cato smiles a sickeningly slow smile down at me. "Didn't think you would show."

I dropped my sword when I hit the ground, but it's only an inch or so away from me. If I stretch a little, I can reach it.

"Where's the little girl from your district?" he taunts. "Find her yet?"

I seriously hope neither of those cannons I heard were for Jill. "As if I would tell _you_." I grasp my sword and, swinging my wrist, hit him in the side of the face with the hilt.

He recoils and is thrown off of me just long enough for me to stand up.

But he's got his own sword, and no sooner have I gotten to my feet than I have to block his blows.

I get first blood, pricking him in the arm.

He returns the favor with a well-aimed slash at my left leg. Blood spurts out and makes my tights sticky.

The next place my sword-point strikes him is the front of his shoulder.

After that it gets hard to register what's happening. Blood flows. From my leg, from his arm, from the side of my chin. I feel hot and cold and dizzy and angry and hungry and feverish all at once.

Suddenly Cato charges and thrusts his full weight on me again, knocking me over.

This time, my sword is hopelessly out of my reach.

So I do the only thing I can think of. I scoot as far down as I possibly can and bite his wrist so hard that beads of dripping red appear and he lets go of his sword. Then I swing my legs to kick the sword as far from his reach as mine. If he wants that sword, he's going to have to let me back up to get it.

It turns into a wrestling match. He's got me pinned down, then I've rolled over and he's under me. Then the roles reverse again. He pulls out a knife, and I manage to knock it out of his reach, just like his sword.

We find a really big rock. Both of us reach for it. But my fingers curl around it first, hitting Cato full-force in the face.

But, then, he's ripped the rock from my hand and struck my already bleeding chin and lower lip with it before I can knock this newest weapon out of his reach.

When the rock's gone, it's just fists again.

We're fighting and thrashing. He's cursing at me. I'm spitting at him. I'm not even sure whose blood is whose anymore. Any of the blood on him could easily be mine, and any of the blood on me could just as easily be his. I've got no way of telling at the moment.

Finally, he pins me down in such a way that I can't get my arms free at all.

"Forget it, Edmund Martin," he says as I struggle. "You're not getting away." He laughs. "We're going to kill you just like we killed your little blue-eyed ally."

The fight drains out of me. These words are worse than anything he could hit me with. Getting decapitated would hurt less.

Because I know he doesn't mean _Jill_.

Jill Pole from my district has _hazel_ eyes. I remember thinking they were pretty when she got up on stage at the reaping.

It's _Lucy_ who has got blue eyes.

Or, rather, who _had_ blue eyes.

Those two cannons I heard...they came _after_ I saw her. One of them must have been for her. The other Careers...it's only _Cato_ here with me...they could have...they...

 _No_!

I can hardly even breathe. And the shallow breath that does get inside of me seems to have a choking effect on my throat.

Lucy-sweet, wonderful, precious Lucy-is dead. She died thinking I didn't care. She died broken-hearted and alone.

No, this isn't right. She was supposed to win. She was supposed to go home.

I should have never broken our alliance. I should have stuck by her every minute. If I had, she'd probably be alive right now. I would have been able to protect her from the Careers after she got that backpack. We would have worked together to survive this feast. Now it's too late.

Let me die here, I think brokenly.

I have no reason to live anymore. The horrors of the arena have been too much for me to handle, and Lucy's death is the final straw. The gamemakers have found a way to break me. Nothing else matters.

If Lucy's life ended in this arena, so should mine.

But then I have a moment of clarity where my resolve changes completely.

I think of Mum and Susan, of my father, back in District 7, watching this.

Part of me wants to do what both Peter and Lucy did when they believed they were going to die. To call out to them and tell them to stop watching.

Especially Susan. I can't imagine what watching this is doing to her. She's never been able to stomach the Hunger Games well. I caught her crying-real tears, snot and everything-more than a few times when it looked like Peter was going to get killed in his Hunger Games, and she doesn't even _know_ him. Not to mention he was a Career tribute, of all things. But that's just the way Susan is. She hates violence, gore, and death. Watching me, her own brother, about to be killed, must be more than she can handle.

An image flashes in my mind. Only for a brief second, but clear as crystal. Susan, sitting on our sofa at home, seeing me here, crying uncontrollably, Mum's arms wrapping around her...

It is my next thought that strengthens my new resolve.

Everyone in District 7 is about to see the boy whose allies are responsible for the death of the person I love the most give the final blow that kills me.

No. No bloody way. Not on my watch. I will not give Cato the satisfaction.

If I die today, he dies _with_ me.

Unfortunately for me, my reinforced desire to kill him-for Lucy's sake, and for Susan's-has come a little too late. I can't get free of him. And somehow or other he's gotten his knife back.

"Let's see," he says. "How should I kill you?" He presses the blade against my heart. "I could just stab you. Hmm." He shakes his head. "Be over a bit too quickly, though, wouldn't it? I think the viewers want something a little better for a tribute who scored an eleven, don't you?"

"You're not right in the head," I croak out, trying to squirm free.

"What's that, Martin?" He tightens his grip on me.

"The gamemakers won't let you win." I'm not at all sure about that, but it feels like the right thing to say. "You're just going to be taken out by some kind of disaster."

"We'll see about that." He lifts the blade to my neck. "But, for now, I've decided how I'm going to kill you. A nice slow slash across your neck." He sighs happily. "You writhing in pain, probably choking on your own blood, unable to get up and do anything about it. I think that's a fitting end for somebody who's given me as much trouble as you have."

"You're really going to hold me down until I bleed to death?" I say dryly.

"It's good entertainment." He shrugs. "Any last words, chariot boy?"

Git. He's just jealous that he didn't fall out of _his_ chariot and get extra attention. That's another thing I did better than him, along with my scoring an eleven. "As a matter of fact, yes." My eyes flicker over to the point of an arrow glinting in what's left of the quickly fading sunlight.

Jill is here. Eustace from District 1, too, I think. My vision's a little hazy, so I can't be sure. Hopefully it's not permanent. But, even if it is, I'm at the point where I really don't care anymore.

I get the impression they've been here a while. Not for the whole fight, probably, but long enough to hear what Cato said about killing Lucy.

"Spit it out," says Cato, impatiently.

I spit in his face.

An arrow hits him in the side. He rolls off of me.

"There's someone behind you," I grunt.

Jill looks at me, takes in my bloody state, and fast-walks over, another arrow fitted on the string. "Edmund..."

That's when I realize Eustace doesn't look right. He seems unstable, his cheeks even more flushed than my cough-racked ally, as he bends down and grabs Cato's sword. I'm surprised he's even able to _lift_ it.

I quickly grab my own sword, clutching the hilt and leaning on it like an old man's cane.

" _You_ killed Lucy?" Eustace asks, glaring at Cato.

Cato snorts, evidently not feeling threatened.

"I asked you a question!" shouts Eustace. "Did you and the others kill her or not? I heard what you said to Edmund." His hands tremble but never let go of the sword hilt.

"Yes," says Cato coldly. "Clove killed her; I'm sure of it. Just like I'm going to kill you when I'm done with Edmund Martin here."

Jill releases her arrow, but it turns out to be unnecessary.

Eustace swings the sword, and due either to an adrenaline rush or a sudden stroke of beginner's luck, slices the head of the boy from District 2 clean off.

Cato is dead before the arrow reaches him (his head lying on the ground almost a full inch away from his body), embedding itself in the same shoulder I drew blood from earlier.

Covered in blood, Eustace's eyes widen. He looks at Cato, then back at Jill. "What happened?" he asks, as if he honestly can't remember. Cato's cannon goes off. "He...he... He's dead..." Eustace gapes at the two-part corpse on the ground again. Then promptly vomits.

"Are you all right?" Jill asks me.

I close my eyes. "No."

"Edmund, I'm sorry about Lucy."

Opening my eyes, I nod numbly. Some tears escape and run into cuts on my face. The salt makes them smart terribly.

"I know our district expects us to team up," she says softly, "but I can't. Edmund, _look_ at him!" She gestures over at Eustace, who appears to be in a state of shock, sitting on the ground, staring at the blood-covered sword like he has absolutely no idea how it got that way. "I can't leave him like this."

Eustace puts his head between his knees.

"Then don't," I tell her. "Don't leave him." Leaving Lucy was a huge mistake, one I'll never be able to undo. There's no reason Jill has to suffer similarly. I don't know how she feels about her ally, but I know she cares about what happens to him. And that's good enough for me. "Here." I hand her the backpack with our district number on it. "All I need is the medicine for my stomach. You take everything else."

"Edmund, thank you!"

"Don't mention it."

"I promise," she tells me, "if anything happens to Eustace, I _will_ find you."

"I'll hold you to that."

She throws herself into my arms and hugs me, just once, very quickly. "Goodbye."

I watch as she helps a dazed, traumatized Eustace back up onto his feet and half-leads, half-drags him away.

Less than a minute after they're out of sight and I'm almost away from the wooden table and the cornucopia, Clove shows up.

She runs to Cato and starts screaming at the top of her lungs. When she sees me running away, she-understandably-concludes that I killed him.

A couple of daggers sail over my shoulder, but neither of them make contact with me.

"I'll get you for this, Edmund Martin!" I hear her sob-shouting.

That's when something I hadn't considered dawns on me as I'm fumbling through the forest in the darkness, trying my hardest to make my way to the stream, so I can meet up with Heath-if he's still alive.

What if Cato and Clove were like me and Lucy?

There was something in the way she screamed, the tone in her voice, that made me think of that. See, I know I would have had a similar reaction (inwardly, at least, if not outwardly) had I found Lucy's corpse.

I should have let Cato kill me. Then he and Clove could have both been victors and lived happily ever after.

They were, I have to admit, perfect for each other.

So much alike. So equally hate-worthy. Neither in their right minds. Both skilled with weapons. Both blood-thirsty.

It's obvious to me now that they would fall in love.

And that announcement was probably a miracle to them.

The same announcement that forced me to end my romance with Lucy might have caused theirs to begin in earnest. They would have known then that there was a chance they could keep each other.

If my guess is true, then I don't blame Clove for wanting to kill me.

I make it to the stream, panting breathlessly.

A light rain falls. Drops splatter-on my shoulders, on my head, on the tip of my nose, on my cheeks.

An hour passes, but Heath doesn't show.

Then, as another hour ticks by, this horrible feeling that he didn't make it washes over me.

There were _two_ cannons. One for Lucy. And one, I now assume, for Heath.

I trudge back to my cave.

Everything is exactly the way it was when I left Lucy here this morning. Not even the sleeping-bag has been moved. In fact, the only items unaccounted for, the only things Lucy took with her, are the violin and her district token-the brass locket.

This proves too much for me to handle.

I can't stop thinking about how, however long I wait here, Lucy will never walk in. I'll never feel her hand wrap around mine, or hear her gentle voice, again.

And the last thing I ever said to her was, "Don't be here when I get back."

I lose it.

Tears stream down my face. I'm shaking and blubbing and sniffling. My chest heaves. My lower lip quivers and I hiccup uncontrollably.

Pulling my knees to my chest, I rock back and forth.

I loved her so much...

Of all the unexpected things that have happened to me since the reaping, loving somebody this intensely was the most jarring.

Will there ever come a moment when I don't regret hurting her? When I don't long to hear her voice, to see her face?

Will it ever go away?

Will there ever come a day when I even really _want_ it to?

I just wish I could see her one last time.

The rain stops.

In a few moments, I know the seal of Panem will appear in the sky.

 _Her_ face will be up there.

Part of me wants to do what I did for Gael. Not look. Show the Capitol that Lucy wasn't just some disposable playing piece in their sick games.

But Lucy's face could never be _anybody's_ face; not to me, not to her brother, not to any person who really knew her.

And I have to see her. I have to see her, just one more time. Even if it's just her image projected in the black arena sky.

I sit outside of the cave and force my neck backwards so I can look up at the sky.

Heath's face appears first.

Then Andrew's (the boy from District 10).

What the...?

Well, _he's_ definitely not Lucy...

Cato's face comes next.

The sky goes dark. No more faces. No more deaths.

The realization takes nearly a full minute to sink in.

Cato was wrong. Or lying. It doesn't matter which.

Only one thing matters.

The one thing I hadn't dared to hope for. Or even considered to be a possibility.

The girl from District 1 is out there somewhere in this arena.

Lucy is still alive.


	28. Chapter 28: Jill

Eustace was in a very intense state of unbreakable shock.

It began right after he cut off Cato's head with that sword. He'd had every reason to do so, of course, considering he believed that the girl from his district had been killed and Cato was-in one way or another-responsible for her murder, but he still hadn't been in his right mind when he did it. And, upon coming back to himself, he seemed unable to retain the information that he had killed someone.

He thought it was Edmund-or myself-who'd killed Cato. One of us from District 7 who had finished him off. That is, when he even believed Cato was dead to begin with. It wasn't until a good while after the Hunger Games were over that I truly managed to convince Eustace he'd been the one who decapitated the boy from District 2. When I tried to tell him before that, he only brushed off my explanation, mumbling and muttering to himself, something about the odds of a person of _his_ size killing somebody of Cato's on the first try being statistically improbable.

Then, one day, he saw the clip, watched as a slightly younger version of himself decapitated Cato, and, turning to me with a bewildered look in his eyes, asked, "I killed Cato. Real or not real?"

"Real," I assured him. The clip had not been tampered with by the Capitol; it was exactly how I remembered it happening when I saw it in person.

But for all our time in the arena, he never believed it.

Mostly, as he slowly came out of his shock, he seemed to blot it out entirely. Only inconsistent flashes of the feast came to him during the remainder of our Hunger Games.

After a bit, Eustace finally knew Cato was dead, and had some vague idea that something bad had happened to Lucy, but had no memory of the feast at all.

The last thing about that day he remembered was the announcement for the feast.

Twice that night, he even asked when we were going and was surprised beyond all reason when I informed him we'd already gone-that the feast had ended.

I didn't watch the sky that night, and so my first knowledge of Lucy's still being alive actually came from the flash of an electric torch slicing quickly through the branches of the tree Eustace and I were sleeping in.

It was a good tree with an excellent view both of the stream and of a wide area just beyond it, so I could see easily if there were any Careers approaching from that direction. But I was worried about Eustace. His shock had made his already below average coordination nearly non-existent and I was so afraid of him falling and breaking his neck, like the red-haired girl from District 5 had, that I pulled blankets around him so tightly he couldn't wiggle his arms or legs free and, using some belts I found in the backpack Edmund had let me take (I guess the Gamemakers figured that, this far in the game, we'd all lost enough weight to need them), strapped him to what I determined to be the sturdiest of all the tree's branches.

In his tired state, he didn't protest. Well, not _much_ , anyway.

The light that passed over me was accompanied by the sound of a familiar voice calling, "Lucy?"

I sat up on my branch and clutched the heavy woolen blanket on my lap so it wouldn't slide off. It was awful cold; Claudius Templesmith hadn't been exaggerating when he'd mentioned the temperature would drop that night.

Below me, I saw Edmund, an electric torch in hand, running around, as if he were looking for somebody.

I rolled my eyes and, stretching a little so I could reach the backpack, which was dangling from the branch above me, took out the one blanket neither Eustace and I were using, and dropped it on his head.

He looked alarmed, whirling round, unsheathing his sword. Then he caught sight of me up in the tree and shined the light from the electric torch right in my face. "Oh!" He looked relieved. "Thanks." He wrapped the blanket around his shoulders.

I wanted to ask him what he was doing, why he was calling for his former ally when she was supposedly dead, but he didn't stop long enough. He kept moving, continuing his frantic search in earnest.

He'd shine the light one place, call out Lucy's name, look round to make sure he wasn't missing anything-or, rather, any _one_ -and then trot over to the next area.

Within five minutes, he was at the stream.

He _did_ stop there for a bit. He had a long drink of water and turned off the light (to save the battery, I suppose). Then the torch was on again and he was walking speedily away.

Soon he was nothing but a speck of black in a hand-held beam of moving light, vanishing in the darkness of the arena.

I wondered if he was insane, calling out like that when any of the other tributes might hear him, but in the end I decided it wasn't insanity that led him to take such a risk; it must have been something stronger than mere madness.

Shortly before 'daybreak' in the arena, another figure stumbled over to the stream, collapsing on the bank.

This one was much smaller than Edmund. I couldn't see the tribute's face. I was aware, by size alone, it had to be a girl, and so presumed it was either Lucy or Clove (even in the rummy lighting, I could plainly see the figure was too short for the jolly nearly _Amazon_ -equate Jadis).

She had a plaid-patterned blanket wrapped around her head, pulled all the way up to her hairline, framing her face, which was turned away.

As she was shivering, I began to suspect it couldn't be Clove. Clove had no reason to be on her own out there, shaking violently. Unless it was a trick of some kind.

Except, if it _was_ , it didn't seem a particularly well thought out one.

Convinced that it was indeed Lucy down there, I made up my mind at last to climb down the tree and see if she was all right. I didn't think she would try to kill me; I was allied with the boy from her district, after all, and she had been, up till yesterday, allied with the boy from mine. But before I could begin descending down the tree, the flash of an electric torch swung by again, a distant circular yellow beam at first but steadily widening, becoming larger.

I knew it meant Edmund was coming back to the stream.

The sky was lightening. Within _seconds_ , not minutes, I knew he would see her for himself, without even needing the aid of the electric torch. I chose not to interrupt their reunion.

"Lucy!" he cried.

She turned, partway. I noticed that she was keeping the blanket over one side of her face in particular; it was as if she was trying to conceal something.

Edmund didn't seem to care. He dropped the electric torch and ran to her as fast as his legs would carry him. "Lucy, I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry for everything."

She sniffled and tears rolled down the visible side of her face. "Edmund..."

"I love you!" he blurted out. "I love you so much, Lucy."

Standing up, rather shakily, she murmured, "I love you, too, Ed." Her lips trembled when she spoke; her voice didn't sound quite right. Her tone was that of a person who's trying to talk and wince in pain at the same time.

"I didn't mean any of what I said," he told her. "None of it."

Lucy was still holding that blanket over the side of her face. In the ever-increasing light, this was becoming more and more apparent.

"What's wrong?" Edmund wanted to know.

Lifting her hand shakily, she pulled back the blanket.

Edmund's eyes widened and he took a step back. "What happened?"

That whole side of her face was covered in dark bruises and her eye was blackened. There were a couple of very vivid bloodmarks on her lip on that side and on her chin. I got the sense that there were several more injuries I was too far up in the tree to see properly, and that it all looked far, far worse at close range.

I suppose, on the whole, it looked as though she'd been beaten half to death.

"It's not as bad as it looks," Lucy got out. As far as I know, that was one of the only times she ever lied to him-or to _anybody_ , come to think of it. And she sounded so much like she was trying to believe it herself that perhaps she didn't even realize it _was_ a lie. "You look like you took a pretty beastly licking yourself."

"Who did this to you?" Edmund demanded. His voice was slow and dangerous.

"Clove," mumbled Lucy, looking down at her feet. "Jadis from District 3, too. Peridan was there, but he didn't touch me. He looked away when they..."

"I'm going to kill them," growled Edmund.

"Ed-" Lucy tried to interject.

"I'm going to show them a thing or two about picking on someone their own size."

Lucy leaned forward and kissed him, just as he appeared to be about to start on a whole other rant on tearing Clove and Jadis limb from limb. He just barely got out something about killing Peridan for standing by and not helping her, when her kiss silenced him.

Her arms locked around his neck and they kissed repeatedly till Edmund pulled away and asked, "How did you escape?"

"I didn't," she said. "They let me go."

"Why?" he said softly.

"I...I don't...I don't know." She sounded like she was on the verge of crying again.

I was confused myself. I didn't understand then why Clove-much less _Jadis_ -would let Lucy go. When they could have killed her, no less. They jolly nearly almost _did_ , if her battered appearance was any indication.

Edmund's arm slipped round the back of her waist and she let out a cry of pain.

"Lu?"

"I'm hurt back there, too," she admitted, a little sheepishly.

"How badly?" There was fear in Edmund's voice.

"Clove cut me with one of her daggers, and it...but, well...I..." Lucy stammered.

"Take off the doublet and turn around," Edmund told her.

Lucy acted hesitant, but she did what he said nonetheless.

The back of her white shirt was covered in dark red blood. Some of it was dried, but even from the height of my tree, I could tell that much of it was fresh-sticky, wet. She was still bleeding-much too freely-from that wound.

Edmund drew in a loud, sharp breath. "I'm just going to take a look," he said gently to Lucy, taking a few steps towards her and lifting up the back of her shirt.

Upon catching a glimpse of the gory wound under the white fabric, I had to swallow several times to rid myself of the urge to vomit. If I'd had something substantial in my stomach, the effort would have been for naught.

Tears appeared on Edmund's cheeks, sliding down them rapidly, and he muttered a colourful curse word under his breath. All he said aloud, though, was, "Dash it! It's pretty deep, Lu."

Lucy whimpered.

"Come on." Edmund pulled her shirt back down and, rolling up her doublet, handed it to her. He put his arm around her shoulders. "Let's go back to the cave. There must be something we can do to stop the bleeding." From the quiver in his tone of voice as he said the latter, I wondered if he actually believed that.

"Eustace," I hissed, after they were gone, "wake up." I leaned over and shook his arm.

"I didn't steal the sweets, I was framed..." he muttered, still asleep and dreaming.

"Scrubb!" I shook him again.

He let out a loud snore, then a sneeze-followed by a snort. "All right, Pole, I'm up."

"I can't believe you slept through all that."

"Through what now?" He tried to sit up on the branch but realized he was still strapped down to it. "Uh, Pole? Could you unbuckle me?" Then, "I bet if lightning struck this tree last night, I would have _died_."

I rolled my eyes. "You didn't hear Edmund and Lucy? Or see the light from the torch? I think he was out looking for her all night."

"Lucy... She's alive?"

I nodded. "Yes." (I didn't mention that she was bleeding heavily from her lower back and covered with bruises. After what he'd gone through the day before, the trauma of the feast, of beheading Cato, I simply couldn't bring myself to tell him any of that.)

Relief flooded his face and the corners of his mouth turned up, but all he said aloud was, "Oh, good."

I unbuckled him and he sat up, rubbing his arms, going on about how I'd pulled the straps too tight.

"Edmund's in love with her."

He snorted as if that statement were the silliest thing he'd ever heard. His expression was one of amusement, though. "Not on Peter's watch."

"Over-protective?" I asked.

"You have no idea." Eustace chuckled a little. "Well, it's only to be expected. I mean, she's all he's got left. It's odd, how isolated they've been, in spite of living in such an urban district. But they didn't really go anywhere or see anyone. I think they had maybe one friend who came over routinely. A music teacher. Then even she didn't visit anymore. A few servants came and went. My father watched Lucy sometimes, when Peter had to go into the Capitol on business. Aside from that, no one ever really stayed there."

"Peter's a victor," I said. "Couldn't he have had people over all the time, if he'd wanted?"

"Honestly," said Eustace, in a soft, rather sad, voice, "I don't think Peter wanted too many friends-of any sort-around Lucy."

"Why is that?"

"I think he was hoping the world would forget about her."

I understood. The more important Capitol-bred people (or even Capitol informants from Career districts) who saw how much he cared about his sister, the greater chance he had of somebody using her against him. Not that his shielding her from society and keeping her from living the life of a celebrity's sister had done any good in the long run. The one part of her life he had little to no control over, her name being put into the reaping bowl the obligatory amount of times for a girl of her age, had sent her straight into the arena.

Eustace changed the subject. "Pole?"

"Yes?"

"I remember part of the feast."

"Which part?"

"Cato telling Edmund they killed Lucy."

That explained his visible relief a few moments before at learning Cato hadn't been telling the truth; that the girl from his district was indeed still alive.

"And after that?" I waited, wondering if his shock was wearing off to the point where he might remember his own part at the feast.

"There's nothing after that." He shook his head as if there were a wasp caught in-between his ears.

"The sword?" I asked. "You remember picking it up?"

"What sword?" He looked genuinely perplexed.

"That would be a no, then."

"Whose sword was it?"

"Cato's."

"Cato is dead, right?'

" _Right_ ," I assured him, my voice sounding a little strained.

I knew his fragile, confused state wasn't his fault, but it was still wearing me to a shadow. A bit self-righteously, I had the feeling that I was still the one carrying the alliance. I cared for Eustace a great deal, and didn't actually mind looking out for him. My happiness at Edmund's telling me not to break my alliance with Scrubb from District 1 was absolute. But I was only human, I couldn't help feeling frustrated; not to mention anxious, knowing there was, even as I refused to leave him, _still_ no way we could both be victors.

What I hadn't known then was that there would come a time when Eustace would be the one who would be strong for me when I needed it most. I couldn't have known then-looking at the pale, frazzled, small-boned, memory impaired boy sitting on the branch across from mine-that, sooner than I could ever have imagined, it would be _him_ who saved _me_.


	29. Chapter 29: Edmund

"We're almost there," I say, helping Lucy to the cave.

She's gotten woozy since I found her by the stream, half her face covered in bruises and a bloody gash on the small of her back.

I don't know what I'm going to do.

Though I don't want to admit it, I know that Clove cut her deeper than the girl from 3's broken spear pierced my stomach. And that was pretty bad.

The last thing I intend to do is let her die. Not after all that's happened. That would just be pathetic on so many levels. But I don't know how to treat a wound this bad. I'm assuming the first thing to do is clot the bleeding. It's just, I don't know for sure if makeshift bandages of torn blankets or towels will work.

It's so deep... I don't think Clove meant to spare Lucy when she let her go. I think she meant to let her bleed to death, slowly. Perhaps as a warning to me. A reminder that she's going to get me back for killing Cato.

Even though, I didn't, actually.

But she has no way of knowing that.

Still, I don't have any pity left for the girl from District 2 at the moment. I hate her passionately for what she's done to Lucy.

Yes, the others, who I also want to kill, were involved, too. Peridan, standing by and doing nothing. Jadis, helping Clove beat the living daylights out of her. But it was Clove's dagger that did the most damage, probably out of spite.

I blame Clove for what happened.

I don't blame her for hating me, for Cato's sake. But I _do_ blame her for each and every last one of Lucy's injuries.

Weapons alone don't kill people; vengeful tributes wielding them do.

Lucy sinks down on the floor at the mouth of the cave. Her face is white as a sheet. I know she's painfully dizzy, even though she doesn't complain.

What am I going to do?

That's when I see the parachute.

It's from Peter.

Dangling from the parachute is a small silver box.

Medicine? Bandages? I'm trying to guess what could possibly be in it.

It's not much, whatever it is. The box fits in the palm of my hand.

I open it and recoil.

Inside, there is nothing except a needle and a spool of medical thread.

I blurt out a word I'm not entirely sure is allowed on public television. Probably the gamemakers or network sensors bleep it out.

I understand what Peter is telling me.

Lucy needs stitches.

The problem is I'm not a doctor. How to sew a wound shut, I haven't the foggiest. I bet Susan could do it, if she were here. She's like that. But I can't. I know I can't. Only, I _have_ to. Lucy's hemorrhaging. If it keeps up much longer, she'll die.

Another parachute falls from the sky and lands at my feet. Attached to this one is a glass bottle of whiskey.

I notice it has my district number on it, _not_ Lucy's.

Oh, fine timing Johanna! Do you _mind_? I'm about to stitch up a wound here.

Golly, you would think she'd figure this probably isn't the best time to send me a bloody _alcoholic beverage_!

As if reading my mind, Lucy murmurs (her weak voice just barely over a whisper), "Edmund, it's an antiseptic."

"Oh." I feel incredibly stupid.

It takes me a moment or so to figure out the best place to do this. There's not enough light inside the cave, and outside we're likely to be spotted if Jadis, Clove, or Peridan comes this way.

 _Light_. That's when it occurs to me.

Bother! I've left my torch back at the stream. When I dropped it and ran to Lucy's side.

That settles it, then. I will have to sew up her wound out here.

She lies on her stomach and I roll the back of her shirt up.

I can hear her crying when I pour some of the whiskey on the open wound. After a few seconds, she sniffles, forcing herself to stop, and grinds her teeth together.

My hands shake in spite of my attempts to keep them steady. I have her blood on the back of one of my wrists in under a minute. I have no idea what I'm doing, just pulling the needle in and out, hoping I'm getting this right. Or, at least, that I'm not making things _worse_. All this needs to do is hold until she wins. Then the Capitol doctors, who have actually had classes for this sort of thing, will give her proper stitches.

Aside from a few whimpers, Lucy doesn't make very much noise after she stops crying.

In fact, by the time I'm done stitching her back up, I don't hear anything from her at all.

Both my eyebrows are wet, dripping with perspiration, even though it's so cold that I'm wondering if the gamemakers intend to make it snow again within the next couple of hours.

Thoughtlessly, I wipe the sweat on my right brow away with the back of my wrist, forgetting I have blood on my hands.

But that doesn't matter right now. I need to be sure Lucy is all right.

I get down on my knees and bend down near her face, which is turned to the side, her cheek pressed against the cold stone ground.

Her eyes are closed.

I fear the worst. That I was too late. That the blood wasn't clotted in time. That she was in so much pain her body just gave out quietly.

No, I think. No! Not after all we've been through together.

She will live. She _has_ to live. I can't go through this again. I thought I lost her once and it broke me. Lucy _deserves_ to live. She deserves to win these games. I _can't_ have lost her for real this time. I can't.

"Lucy," I whisper, looking down at her, my eyes filled with tears. "Lu? Speak to me."

Ever so slowly, one of her eyes cracks open. "Hi, Ed," she murmurs hoarsely.

She's not dead. She lived through it. And, to the best of my knowledge, her hemorrhaging has been stopped.

I kiss her on the temple.

"You're crying," she says softly.

(Yes, I'm being a spineless sap _again_ , we all get it...) "I thought..."

"I'm all right," she tells me.

I can see that, but her personal reassurance comforts me in a way nothing else can. "Can I get you anything?" I wish I had food to give her.

"I'm a bit cold."

That's an understatement, I realize. Her lips are beginning to go blue and her fingertips are losing their colour as well, meaning her circulation is off. No wonder, really. Her back's been exposed in this frigid arena air all this time. Of _course_ she's bloody cold! Poor thing.

I notice there's still a lot of whiskey left in that bottle Johanna sent. "Here." I pick up the bottle and hand it to her as she, with some clear difficulty, sits up.

She blinks down at the bottle in her hands.

I guess, the way she grew up, alcohol was strictly a medical device. I bet Peter is the one who told her about whiskey being an antiseptic. I mean, who _else_ would she have learned that from?

"You've never drank before, have you?" I ask, unable to keep a mild chuckle out of my voice.

"My Uncle Harold's a teetotaller," Lucy explains, blushing. "Peter _did_ keep a few bottles of wine in the pantry, years ago. Sometimes, when I was little, Peter gave me a bit of the wine when I had a stomachache. But I haven't seen any wine in our house for a long time. Not since Peter's name was drawn in the reaping, actually. I think Uncle Harold got rid of anything with alcohol in it about an hour after Peter left for the Capitol. Peter likes port, but he doesn't bring it home with him."

"It'll help you warm up," I tell her. "You might sputter and cough a bit at first, though, since you're not used to it."

My prediction is correct. Lucy coughs and sputters. Her nose wrinkles involuntarily at the first taste. After a couple swallows, however, she smiles. "It's not bad."

I take a few swallows myself, but I don't cough. I'm used to it-the taste and the way it burns my throat-from drinking with Johanna back in District 7.

Which I know, live or die, I'll never do again.

I'm never going to be that same person who was starved for something exciting to happen in a boring woodsy district. He's gone. And that saddens me.

I'm not sad I've changed, but I _am_ sad that it took something this massive to bring that change about.

I should have become a better person when I had the chance to live. Not while I've been in an arena fighting to the death. Not while falling in love with somebody who is way too good for me.

We go inside the cave and crawl into the sleeping-bag.

With Lucy's head resting on my chest, I feel more relaxed that I have since the rule-change. I sleep for I don't know how long, waking up with an emotion that-if our circumstances were different-I would call happiness. Perhaps even out-right contentment.

Lucy lifts her head. "You're awake."

"Yeah," I say, surprised that my voice sounds groggy. "Did you sleep?"

"A little," she says. "I've only been awake for about an hour."

"It's your back keeping you up?" I ask. "It hurts?"

"No, not too bad," says Lucy, smiling at down at me. "I was just thinking."

"What were you thinking about?"

"Everything."

I understand. "Any ideas?"

"No." She closes her eyes. "It seems like, whatever happens..."

"I know..." I sigh, reaching up and touching the side of her face.

She leans into my touch. "I want you to win."

"But I don't want to," I tell her. "Not if it means you don't."

We stare at each other for a few moments. We've run out of things to say. Trapped at an impasse. I win, she dies. She wins, I die. And then there's Jill and Eustace to think about. One of them has to die, too.

Not wanting to think about it anymore, I gently pull Lucy down and press my lips against hers. Our lips part. Our mouths open a little, and I slip my tongue into hers.

We're so comfortable and warm, I doubt anything could make us stop and let go of each other.

Then I remember we're on live television and get the feeling that the cameras are on us. Somehow, I doubt broadcasting Jadis, Peridan, and Clove glowering over a fire-pit somewhere would be all that engrossing to the home-viewing audience. Unless somebody's bleeding or dying, we're being featured.

And, honestly, that's just plain creepy.

Sighing, I pull away and tuck a lock of Lucy's hair that's fallen into my collar and is tickling my neck behind one of her ears.

After a bit, Lucy says, "Edmund, I need to tell you something."

"What is it?"

"When Clove and Jadis..." she begins, swallowing hard. "I mean, something they said..."

"What did they say?"

"Well, Peridan said it first, sort of. He wanted to break off the Career alliance, since Eustace is with Jill, and Clove's the only real Career left. But Clove and Jadis both said the alliance wasn't over until..."

"Until what, Lu?"

"Until _you're_ dead."

Both Clove and Jadis want me dead; not too surprising that they'd agree to keep being allies long enough to accomplish that mutual goal. But that gives me an idea. "Wait, so if I was dead, they would start fighting _each other_?"

"There's still Eustace and Jill," she points out.

"Yes," I say, a little impatiently. "But they don't care which one of them kills _them_ , do they?"

"I suppose not." Lucy doesn't seem to understand what I'm getting at.

"So, theoretically, they could start fighting each other before any of them got close enough to Jill and Eustace."

"Yes..."

"If I was dead."

"But you're not dead."

"Yet."

She looks stricken. "Edmund..."

"No, no, hear me out," I say.

"I won't let you kill yourself."

"I don't plan on it." Who's going to protect Lucy from Clove and Jadis if I do something stupid like that? I'm not a moron.

She crinkles her forehead. "But you just said..."

"Remember those berries you told me about?" I ask, grinning. "Nightlock and the coma berries?"

"Yes."

"What if I ate the coma berries and made it look like what I ate was nightlock?"

Her eyes widen. "How?"

"Easy," I say. "Put some nightlock near my hands. They don't know I know they're poisonous, do they?"

"I...I don't know...probably not."

"Then that's exactly why it would work!" I'm beginning to get really excited about this. "They think I'm dead, they fight each other..."

"Edmund, they're going to know you aren't dead when they see your face isn't in the sky."

"So I'll eat the berries in the morning. Gives us a whole day's start."

"Wait, they _might_ know Eustace wouldn't eat them."

"So?"

"Ed, you don't understand-he's my cousin. If they know he knows about the berries, they could assume I do, too."

"All right." I consider this. "Wait, I've got it!" I smirk proudly. "What if I made them think I did it on purpose?"

"You mean, like suicide?"

"You don't think they would believe it?"

She thinks for a moment, looking down at me very intently. "They might believe it if _both_ of us ate the berries," she suggests meekly.

I wince warily. I'm reluctant to put Lucy in any more danger, but she has a point. If we both look as if we've eaten nightlock, they might think we did it so we could die together, to avoid having it come down to the two of us.

Besides, Lucy's score being a ten, there's a good chance they'd want to get rid of her the second they found out I was dead. Because of her score being two points lower, Jill has a slightly better shot at avoiding both Jadis and Clove coming at her at once, upon learning I killed myself, than Lucy does. Perhaps having her with me, seemingly dead, will protect her.

"We still have that last set of explosives, don't we?" I make sure.

"I think so," says Lucy. "I didn't take them with me when I...when I left..." When I was an ass and told her to leave the cave and not come back.

"If we set them off," I say, "they might think it was a cannon, or at least that it droned out our cannons." Makes it more convincing.

"We can hide everything we don't want them to take, but leave some supplies out, so it doesn't look like we hid anything."

"Good idea, Lu."

"I guess this means we're going to have to go back to the stream and pick some berries," Lucy sighs.

And so we do. We climb out of the sleeping-bag and leave the cave. I have my sword on me, just in case. We hold hands for the entire walk. I can't fully explain it, but part of me is scared to let go of her. It's as if I'm afraid if I'm not touching her, not holding onto some part of her, something will happen and I'll lose her again. And I just can't let that happen.

When we reach the tree Jill was in last night, I look up, but she's not there anymore. I also do a quick look-around for my electric torch, but it's gone. I hope Jill took it. I'd rather her and Eustace have it than the others.

We pick two half handfuls of nightlock and two full handfuls of the coma berries. I'm not so sure about putting both kinds together in the plaid blanket we're using for a basket, but Lucy insists she can tell them apart easily.

I decide to trust her judgment. I owe her that much.

Back at the cave, we hide a few blankets, Lucy's canteen (since it's bigger than mine), what's left of the whiskey, and the flint in a hollow under a loose rock. Everything else, including the towels and Lucy's plastic tub with the herbs in it, we leave out for grabs.

But it's getting late, so our real plan doesn't start till tomorrow. Tonight, we will sleep normally, without the help of the berries.

Still, Lucy prepares for our morning 'suicide' by dividing up the berries. The half handfuls of nightlock that will be on either side of the both of us, giving the appearance that we ate quite a bit, and the handfuls of coma berries we really _are_ going to eat.

When she's done, we slip back into the sleeping-bag and try to sleep. This time, it's Lucy who's asleep almost right away, and me who stays awake thinking of 'everything'.

So much could go wrong. What if Jadis or Clove tries to stab us to make sure we're dead? I won't be able to leap up and protect Lucy. And yet I'll hear everything that happens. I might hear Lucy die for real.

But I can't afford to think like that.

Anyway, what _reason_ will they have to stab us, as long as the berries are convincing? Won't they expect the hovercraft to be coming for us?

Morning finally comes.

I think I slept about five minutes-ten, at best.

The first thing we do is get the explosives ready. (We put the supplies we don't intend to hide with the ones we _are_ hiding, just for a little while. We don't want them getting blown up and giving us away.) Lucy activates them, gets the two silver-and-glass sticks glowing.

So I don't die in the explosion when she strikes them together, she has me wrap my arms around her and grasps my wrists. This way, we're both inside of the protective shield.

As soon as it's over, we do our best to clean up the glass, and take the supplies we're willing to have stolen back out.

Then we sit down on the cave floor and Lucy pours my portion of the coma berries into my palm.

"See you afterward, if-" I begin.

Lucy leans her face close to mine. "No _if_. Just see you afterward."

"See you afterward then, my love."

Her cheeks redden. I like making them do that.

Even though we're not actually going separate ways, we kiss goodbye, just in case. This is as close to _if_ as we'll come.

She puts the handful of berries to her mouth, tilts her head back, and swallows.

Quickly, I do the same.

Closing her eyes, she lies down.

As the last of the berries are still going down my throat, I lie down beside her and put one arm around her waist, holding her close.

Clove, Jadis, and Peridan should be here soon. That explosion was loud enough to get their attention. For some reason, it sounded even louder than the one that blew up the Careers' food supply. Maybe it's just me. But I know we won't have long to wait.

I hear them come in. It sounds distant and static-filled at first, like a radio gradually turning on, but soon their voices become clearer. They still sound kind of far away, yet I can make out every word perfectly all the same.

Clove: "Are they dead?"

Jadis (her voice filled with disgust): "No, they're sleeping."

I hear the rustle of Peridan's boot scraping against the floor of the cave and gather he is examining the nightlock. I feel him lift up my arm from around Lucy and feel my wrist for a pulse.

He flips me onto my back and puts his ear against my chest. "No, Clove is right, they are dead," he says.

Jadis: "I say we stab them and make sure. Clove, give me your dagger."

No, I think. No, no, _no_.

Peridan: "No. Let's just take their supplies and go."

Something about his voice is off... Does he suspect...?

Clove: "Yeah, the hovercraft will be here soon anyway and we'll have to clear out."

Jadis: "Better safe than sorry."

Clove: " _No_. You'd only come at me with my own dagger after you stabbed them. Till we're out of this cave, we're still in a state of truce; we had an agreement. Let's just go."

Later, I feel my ability to move my muscles returning to me, and this strange misty fog in my mind that makes my head feel as heavy as lead vanishes.

I bolt upright, panicked.

I don't know why I'm panicked. A bad feeling has just come over me all of a sudden.

Looking at Lucy, I feel myself shudder involuntarily. She really does look dead.

I know one of the effects of the coma berries is supposed to make her breathing appear to have stopped completely, but somehow that doesn't make this any less frightening.

What if, I think, she ate the nightlock by mistake?

No, that's madness. She couldn't- _wouldn't_ -have. She could tell the berries apart.

Unless she did it on purpose.

I don't want to believe it, but thinking of what she said, about wanting me to win...

She wouldn't...

But what if she _did_?

I shake her shoulder.

No response.

Not entirely in my right mind, I reach for the nightlock on the ground.

The little berries feel so heavy in my hands. Will they really kill me before they even reach my stomach?

Lucy still hasn't moved.

She ate the berries first. And she's smaller. If hers really were the coma berries and not nightlock, shouldn't the effects have worn off of her by now?

Unless... Did she eat too many or something? Surely she should have eaten less than me. But I know she ate the same amount.

I bring the nightlock closer to my mouth. It probably won't hurt. I've been through more pain in this arena than a few poisoned berries can possibly inflict on me. I'm a little nervous, sure, but not so nervous I won't do it.

I put the berries in my mouth.

If Lucy doesn't wake up in the next five minutes, I'll swallow.

Because I'll know she's not coming back.

Five minutes feels like for ever.

Finally, when I assume the allotted time I gave myself has gone by, I prepare to swallow.

I'm just about to gulp the nightlock down when I see Lucy's index finger move.

She can wiggle her finger! She's alive!

Immediately, I turn my head and spit out the nightlock. Then I wipe my mouth with the back of my doublet sleeve.

Lucy's eyes open. "Ed?"

"I'm here," I say, reaching out and squeezing her hand.

"They bought it?" She smiles shakily.

I grin and slowly nod. "They bought it."

"Where do we go now?" she asks.

"I was thinking, perhaps the hedge maze?"

"But I thought you didn't like it there."

"I don't." I shrug. "But I think that's what makes it ideal. Probably not the first place whoever is left will come looking for us when they figure out we're not really dead."


	30. Chapter 30: Jill

"Eustace, turn off the light!" I hissed.

"I'm _trying_ ," he whisper-insisted, fumbling with the electric torch.

The torch slipped from his grasp and fell to the ground.

Before the light blinked out upon impact, I caught a distorted glimpse of a small bunch of splintered wood shaped in such a way that, along with the single broken string left, indicated it was once a fine violin.

It wasn't till much later, when I saw a clip of Lucy from District 1 playing her funeral song for the girl from 4 that I understood where it had come from.

But I hadn't the time to ponder the broken instrument then anyway; for Clove was nearby and my aim at the moment was to get myself and Eustace hidden behind a tree before she noticed us. (A task the light had been making difficult.)

At first I wondered why she was alone, and why she hadn't lit a fire on a night that was shaping up to be so cold, then it occurred to me that her alliance with Jadis and Peridan must have ended.

They might, I thought, even be dead; perhaps Clove killed them herself.

Except, in that case, if they were, in fact, dead, she could have lit a fire.

Unless it was _Edmund and Lucy_ she was avoiding... Which didn't seem like something she would do.

All I knew was that Eustace and I had heard an almost deafening noise that morning. Although, whether it was a tribute's death cannon or something else altogether, we couldn't guess.

Clove ran her fingers through her long dark hair, tucked her legs under her bottom, and looked up at the sky.

The way she was sitting, she didn't look at all like the monster we knew her to be. She simply looked as any tired young girl resignedly waiting for something important to happen might have. You wouldn't have taken her for a vicious killer. Her face was white against her dark tunic and the blackness of the night, not with illness or injury, but with pure exhaustion, as though she'd been running and climbing all day.

The seal of Panem appeared in the sky and the anthem played.

A small, expectant sigh came out of her.

But no faces appeared.

She straightened her back and waited a few moments, but the sky stayed black after the bright seal faded.

"Why, that sneaky bastard!" growled Clove, standing up. She grasped the hilt of a dagger and her pale face flushed with rage, turning her facial expression from tired to wholly murderous.

"Clove!" Someone came out of the bushes to the other side of her and grasped her arm.

She whirled around and slashed at the tribute with her dagger.

"Clove!" said the voice again.

"It's Peridan," Eustace whispered to me.

"Shh." I could see that for myself, and his whisper was louder than mine; he might have given our hiding position away if he'd kept talking.

Peridan's upper right arm was bleeding, but aside from that Clove hadn't hurt him. He had reached out and grasped her shoulders and, while she did kick him in the shins once, I could tell she wasn't making much effort to get away. She didn't believe he was going to kill her. I know that, because, if she had believed herself in danger, I'm sure Peridan would have been lying on the arena ground in a pool of blood within minutes of jumping out at her.

He was bigger and stronger, but she was handier with a dagger.

"Listen to me," he said, giving her a firm shake, like a brother talking to a little sister in trouble, making sure he had her attention. "Don't hunt him."

"He made a fool out of me," she snapped. "Out of all of us."

Peridan didn't respond; it was a guilty silence.

"You _knew_?" Clove pulled out of his grasp and slapped him across the face (using the hand with the dagger in it).

"You know they're stronger than us," Peridan said, putting his hand to his bleeding cheek. "Edmund bested Cato with strength and swordplay." He paused, letting that sink in. "And more clever. He and Lucy both fooled you and Jadis with those berries."

"You could have told us," Clove hissed through gritted teeth.

"I did the honourable thing," Peridan told her. "They deserved to win that round. In all my years of watching the Hunger Games, in all my years of training for every possibility in these games, I have never seen anyone fake their own death efficiently. There comes a time when a man has to face up to the facts when he knows he's out-matched by someone greater-better at the game-than he is."

"So what do you suggest I do? _Let_ them win?" She shook her head. " _Never_."

"All I'm saying is to leave them alone," Peridan explained. "They might still die, Clove, on their own. But right now they're strong. But they're also honourable, and they won't kill you if you don't try to kill them first."

"Strong?" Clove echoed in angry disbelief. "They're not _strong_."

"He scored an eleven, and she scored a ten," Peridan pointed out. "They have a firm alliance. They trust each other. You and Jadis don't. That alliance is already broken off. You barely even trust _me_. The disloyalty, the lack of unity, will kill any of us who's foolish enough try to hunt them _now_."

"Lucy is _barely_ alive," Clove argued. "I know how deep I cut her. And Edmund Martin is no doctor."

"Clove, please," began Peridan, reaching for her hand.

She nicked his out-stretched palm with her dagger. "Do _not_ touch me again. You betrayed me back in that cave." She held the dagger up higher. "And if you won't help me kill Edmund, that means you're still against me."

"Clove-"

"No! He killed Cato; now I kill him."

"I'm not saying you can't win. I'm just saying, this isn't how you will."

"If you're on his side, I'll kill you here and now before I even bother about _him_."

"Don't..." I noticed he took several quick-paced steps back, giving himself enough space to run if she flung the dagger on impulse within the following five seconds.

But it was not Clove who would kill Peridan.

Jadis appeared behind him.

Clove cried out and warned him, to her everlasting credit.

Jadis wielded, not one, but _two_ ,massive steel-and-stone swords, swinging them expertly.

I wondered where she'd found those. Part of me thought, with a shudder, that maybe her sponsors, thinking the over-sized weapons were all she needed to begin finishing the rest of us sparse and far-between tributes off, had sent them.

Most of the time, sponsors didn't pay for weapons, leaving the tributes to use only what was taken from the cornucopia. Some might have even considered that cheating. Except, the few times it happened, it had never been called out on. I think Finnick Odair from 4 might have won that way, in fact. If I'm not mistaken, his sponsors, probably because they were charmed by his being so good-looking, sent him a big trident, knowing he knew-as no one else in the arena that year possibly could have-how to use it.

What happened next was over so quickly I barely had time to process it. All I was aware of was a flash of that steel and stone in the hands of the girl from District 3, and Peridan going down. Clove tried to fight her, at first, but then was forced- _very_ unwillingly-into a retreat.

She started running as hard and far as she could. For somebody not raised in a rural district of trees and dirt-road running paths, Clove turned out to be quite good at maneuvering through the forest at high speed.

Jadis was right at her heels, though.

Even before they were out of our sight, I had little doubt how that would end; that Jadis would, eventually (after a dramatic scene the Capitol audience-glued to their television sets-would be privy to a live showing of while we would not), kill Clove.

Eustace kept tugging on my arm and pointing emphatically at Peridan's collapsed body on the arena ground.

"You can talk _now_ ," I said, perhaps a little too harshly, pulling my arm free before he jolly well yanked it from its socket. "They're too far away to hear us. This pantomime really isn't necessary."

"Is he..." Eustace began.

"I think so, Scrubb," I said, my voice becoming regretful and saddened. Out of all the Careers that stayed within their pre-arranged alliances, Peridan was the least horrid.

I admitted it fully to myself then: I liked him. I felt truly _sorry_ for him.

Out of all the Careers, in his own way, subtle and yet so deep, he'd proven that he was more than just a game-piece. He'd shown himself, in a quiet, non-obvious manner, to be constantly in possession of a quality I think even _I_ didn't have the _entire_ time I was in that arena: humanity.

The worst thing he'd done (that I knew of at the time), his one slip in being-quite possibly-the most human person in the arena, was when he let Clove and Jadis beat up Lucy. And perhaps that could be forgiven him, attributed to his overt intelligence, since he knew the risk openly protecting Lucy then would have brought upon him. And clearly he _did_ care; at least about his fellow Careers, if nobody else. He hadn't wanted to be the one to kill Lucy or Eustace; and I'd just seen him speaking to Clove as if she was family-a little sister, or dear cousin he was fond of.

He hadn't _had_ to go back and talk to her.

But that's what he chose.

If he had chosen differently, perhaps Jadis wouldn't have gotten the opportunity to kill him; not right away, at any rate.

Yet, if he had decided not to voice his belief that Clove didn't stand a chance in a fight between Edmund and Lucy, I don't think he would have been _him_.

I can't explain it. I knew him so little, and yet, at that moment, looking at his motionless body, I felt he had shown us all-tributes and viewers alike-who he really and truly was.

The games had changed him, as they changed everybody, but with one major difference.

Somehow, they hadn't changed him as _much_.

No sooner had Eustace climbed out from behind the tree and crept to Peridan's side than the cannon for the boy from District 4 went off.

Eustace told me later that for a second there, he'd seen Peridan alive. That the cannon had gone off _early_. That, in that second, Peridan had looked at him, recognized him, and seemed as if he wanted to say something, possibly something as simple as 'goodbye'. Then he'd seen his eyes roll to the back of his head.

Which explained why, as the cannon went off, I could hear Eustace sniffling.

Bending down to pick up the electric torch (unsure if it was broken or not), I glanced at my thumb-ring.

Horses seemed so frivolous then. No longer things of beauty in my eyes. Or, if they were still beautiful, it didn't matter as much.

For how could there be beauty, when so much bad had happened?

Or was I mistaken, I wondered, and was the purpose of beauty to distract humans from an otherwise ugly world of our own making?

And, if so, was beauty nothing but shallow escapism, or was it something precious all the same, still worth caring about on one of the coldest, darkest nights of your life?


	31. Chapter 31: Edmund

I am crouched on top of one of the walls of the hedge maze, cold wind whipping mercilessly at my face, when I finally spot them.

Jadis and Clove are coming.

Less than five minutes ago, I heard a cannon. I didn't know who it was for. Apparently, neither of _them_. Too bad. Either of them gone at this point would be the ultimate blessing.

Either, but _especially_ Jadis.

The girl from 3 still scares me more than any of the others. She should have been a Career-a real one, not just one of their allies. She has far more of the Career mentality than Lucy or Eustace ever will. More even than Cato did and Clove still _does_.

And that's rather depressing, when you think about it.

Jadis swings two gigantic swords. Clove fights her off with her dagger as best she can, while mostly just running.

Neither of them have seen me yet. And that's good. I could/should probably just climb back down, ignoring my stinging hands, and get away, let them fight each other.

This was the plan, after all.

At the very least, I can walk further along the wall. So I won't have to _watch_ this.

But something holds me back.

Clove starts climbing the hedge wall. The same one I'm looking down at her and Jadis from.

Jadis drops one sword and grabs onto Clove's ankle, trying to pull her down. She's clearly very strong, and the girl from 2 is having a hard time struggling against her.

A whimper escapes Clove and something inside of me-the same unidentifiable force holding me back-snaps. I grab her wrist, hoping she won't run my already torn-up hand through with a dagger, and try to pull her up, out of the grasp of the girl from District 3.

For about two seconds it's like a game of 'tug and war'. Then Clove's on top of the hedge wall with me, blinking at me.

Likely, she's trying to figure out why I've suddenly gone out of my mind. I don't blame her. That's what I'm trying to figure out, too.

I mean, this is _Clove_.

Clove, the girl who teamed up with Cato-who was obsessed with bloody _killing_ me-from the start. Clove, the girl who cut Lucy so badly I had to give her stitches. Clove, the girl who hates me.

So why am I trying to _help_ her?

This isn't part of the plan. I'm _supposed_ to let Jadis and Clove finish each other off! Wasn't that why I went through that whole nightlock facade?

Is it that I can't stand the thought of Jadis killing yet another person? Is my fear and disgust of Jadis stronger than my hate for Clove? Is _that_ it?

Suddenly Clove tries to stab me with her dagger and shove me off the wall at the same time, into the path of the sword-wielding girl from District 3.

 _Nice_. Real nice.

That's some deep, heart-felt gratitude right there. _Not_.

"Oh no you don't!" I keep my balance, tighten my fingers round both of her wrists, and use the fact that I'm taller and heavier than she is to push her down into the foliage of the wall, wrenching her dagger away from her and flinging it to the opposite side. This way, it's out of Clove's reach and she can't come at me with it again, and it's not on the side where Jadis could snatch it up. The last thing the girl from 3 needs is _another_ sharp object at her disposal.

"Edmund Martin, you sorry bastard!" swears Clove through a clenched jaw, her face red with fury.

"I'm sorry," I say sarcastically. "Did you _want_ me to pick you up and throw you back down there?"

She furrows her brow at me and pouts, putting her hand on her hip. "You wouldn't dare."

I scoop her right up and swing as if I'm going to throw her back.

Somehow, I know I won't be able to actually go through with it. I can't give anyone to Jadis like this, in cold blood. Not even a monster like Clove.

But apparently Clove doesn't know that I have a conscience. Because she's fussing, clawing at my face with her nails, and cursing, using several words I'm sure the gamemakers and network sensors are having a rough time bleeping out.

They'll probably have to mute this whole dashed segment if she keeps it up.

By the time I put a still completely hysterical Clove back down on the wall, there's a broken piece of one of her fingernails stuck in this little hole I now have below my left temple.

A thin stream of blood trickles out of that hole, working its way around Clove's fingernail like water going around a dam.

Jadis is climbing the wall. In spite of cutting up her hands, she's almost at the top. So as soon as her ghost-white fingers are in reach, I step down hard on them with my boot.

She lets go, but then latches onto my boot so that if she falls, I fall _with_ her.

To my surprise-and slight relief-Clove grabs onto my arms and pulls.

I kick at the white face of the girl from District 3. The toe of my boot clips her red (black in the dark) lips and draws blood, which trickles down her white chin.

I kick again and she turns her head to spit out a tooth.

Clove pulls me the rest of the way out of her grasp. "There!" she hisses. "We're even."

Jadis forces her way to the top, this time succeeding in reaching it, and chases us around the tops hedge walls.

"Where's your little ally, _Edmund_?" asks Jadis, her voice dripping with contempt not even the slight whistle caused by her now missing tooth can hide.

Lucy is safe. I've hidden her the one place they will never think to look. The cornucopia itself. She's curled up in there, as far in as she'll fit, blankets pulled over her, waiting for me.

I made her _promise_ me she wouldn't leave there till I came back.

She wanted me to hide in the cornucopia with her. She didn't want me out scouting the hedge maze at random, watching to see if anybody was coming. But I told her the cornucopia wouldn't fit both of us. I'm too big to fit properly, even on my own. She's small and can squeeze right on in.

Even if Jadis and Clove suddenly decide to team up again and kill me right now, nothing they can say or do will make me tell them where Lucy is.

If I die, the secret of where the girl from District 1 is hiding dies with me.

But neither Clove nor Jadis seem at all willing to team up again. Jadis is trying to kill Clove-or me-or _both_ of us. And I'm fighting to save my own skin and, for reasons still can't explain to myself, Clove's.

We end up back on the ground. We jumped. Or we fell. I'm too shaken to figure out which.

Jadis has both of her swords, lost in the climb, back in her hands.

My sword's unsheathed. I pulled it out of the scabbard back on the wall. Clove's behind me, unarmed. Some mad part of me, though I know I didn't have a choice, almost regrets taking away her dagger.

I'm shaking as I block the blows from the double swords of the girl from District 3, yet I manage not to get myself too badly injured. A not particularly noteworthy nick on one leg and a tear in my tights is all I have to show from my fight with her this time. But _she_ doesn't get badly injured by _me_ , either.

I do manage, after what feels like for ever, to knock one sword out of her hands.

Clove is quick as lightning, diving to the ground and grabbing the hilt of the dropped sword.

For one horrible moment, I expect her to turn on me and try to lop my head clean off, as she believes I did to Cato.

But, thankfully, she doesn't. She goes for Jadis. Same as I do.

With the two of us fighting her, we stand some chance. A chance neither of us, even me with my eleven, would have stood alone.

It's an unspeakably hideous sight, killing a young woman and watching her die. But that's what Clove and I see when Jadis is finally defeated.

Jadis sinks to the ground.

She seems unable to believe she has been defeated. That she will not be the victor is unfathomable to her. "Impossible," she says, to herself, though she's looking up at us, her eyes wide.

One more blow-or stab-or clean slice of the sword-will be her end.

I raise my sword, not particularly hesitant (it's not something I'm proud of, but it's the truth). Only Clove is quicker. There's still this unwavering competitiveness between her and myself she has created in her head. And _she_ wants to be the one to kill Jadis.

Jadis dies. But she decides to take Clove with her. With the last of her strength, she runs her sword clear through Clove's stomach. So deep the blood-covered pointed steel end sticks out from her back.

The whimper, the same one that made me almost care about Clove earlier, returns. She falls onto her side. Though she knows it's hopeless, she's still damaging her hands trying to pull the sword out of herself.

I kneel at her side. I know there's nothing I can do, but... I don't... I don't know...

So I do the only thing I can think of. I help her pull out that sword.

Clove is covered in blood. Her back, her stomach... It's even coming up out of her mouth.

She whimpers again and a small sob escapes her.

For someone in as much pain as she must be in, in spite of everything, I have to admit she handles it remarkably well.

It's now, seeing the blood-her life-pour out of her by the gallon, that I understand why I wanted to help her.

Because I don't see Clove, Career-stock girl. Or Clove, girl who hates me. Or even Clove, girl who almost killed Lucy.

I just see a girl. A scared, injured, dark-haired girl. A girl who has a family back in her own district. A girl who might have been in love with Cato, as I am with Lucy. A girl whose name was drawn from a reaping bowl. Or perhaps she volunteered, because she had a misconception of what these games were really like.

How could she have known there was no glory in this?

If she had known she would die in agonizing pain with nobody but the person she hated most in the arena to see her off, would she have been so happy about being selected as a tribute?

I doubt it.

I don't see Clove, girl who tried to shove me off the hedge wall for Jadis to kill.

You know who I see?

Me.

Me, in another life. Me, raised differently, in a district that lies about what it's really like to kill somebody. Me, expecting to be worth something, to have meaning in my life. Only to end up getting run through with a sword.

Clove is not my enemy.

None of the other tributes-dead or alive-are.

A lump forms in my throat.

I start to get up.

To my surprise, a bloodied hand reaches out and latches onto mine. "No! Don't leave me."

It's funny, how things in life turn out.

All I wanted was to kill this girl. To punish her for hurting somebody I love. Now, I'm sitting with her as she draws her last breaths. I'm cross-legged on the cold ground, holding her hand.

"Clove," I say, "there's something you should know."

She lets out a sharp gasp of pain and whimpers again.

"I..." Should I tell her? Would it be better if she died not knowing? "I didn't kill Cato."

She looks at me, her eyes focusing best they can on my face. "I know."

Her eyes don't move again. And there's something different about the way they're fixed on me. It's not as if a person is looking out through them. It's more like they're made of glass or marble. As still as _any_ inanimate object might be.

I nod down at her.

I don't know what she meant by her, "I know," but I accept it.

Reaching out, I put my hands over her eyelids, bringing them down over her eyes.

Two cannons (one for Jadis, one for Clove) boom.

I have to clear out for the hovercraft, but first I notice a little blood-red flower growing low on the hedge wall directly behind me.

It's probably poisonous, but that suits Clove fine. I don't want a rash on my fingers or anything, though, so I wrap my hand in my doublet first, _then_ pluck it.

I place the red flower behind one of Clove's ears. "So long, Clove."

My name is Edmund Martin. I am fifteen years old. I am in the 77th Hunger Games. I am one of the final four in the arena, and I haven't the foggiest what's going to happen to any of us.

Fifteen minutes later, I reach the cornucopia.

I whistle a four-note Mockingjay call Lucy taught me. It's our agreed upon signal. I promised her I would whistle the note if it was safe for her to come out to me right away when I returned.

She craws out of the cornucopia, gets to her feet, and runs into my open arms.


	32. Chapter 32: Jill

They gave us a day.

That was it. _One day_.

One day without disasters forcing the remainder of the games into pure gore. Only that one day before the Capitol audience got bored and the Gamemakers had to play their part in putting the four of us through endless misery.

During that one day of peace, Eustace and I reunited with Edmund and Lucy.

We saw them, coming up a sloping green hill on the northwest side of the arena. They had been wandering around, unsure of what to do, since they'd left the hedge maze.

At catching sight of one another, Eustace and Lucy's eyes both filled with tears, and something the Gamemakers had definitely not expected-nor _wanted_ -happened: the two cousins ran to each other and embraced.

"Are you all right?" Lucy asked him, pulling away.

"I'm fine, Cousin," he assured her.

My reunion with Edmund Martin from _my_ district was not _quite_ so emotional. I barely knew him, after all. We were no relation, and I'm sure the gamemakers would not have understood if we'd reacted to seeing each other as best friends would.

Not, however, that the sight of him, bloodied and tired-yet _alive_ -didn't bring tears to my eyes; it did. I couldn't help it, really. He was from _home_. A part of District 7 that had survived the ever-shifting odds.

"Hullo, Jill," he said, nodding in my direction.

"Hi, Edmund." I smiled faintly.

We were all thinking the same thing: what do we do _now_?

Only, as no answer to that question arrived, we all sat down and talked. They told us, first-hand, about the berries, how they had fooled Clove, Jadis, and Peridan (though Eustace and I both knew Peridan had never truly been fooled-only Clove and Jadis had actually been taken in) into thinking they had simultaneously committed suicide. We listened to their story, and, in turn, answered their questions about what we had seen in the arena recently.

Nothing else for it, we all started marching back towards the stream. We had no idea what we all planned to do once we got there, but it was as good a place as any to be going. And it was almost a relaxing walk, considering we didn't have to worry about other tributes coming after us.

Lucy commented that, with only us four left, the arena seemed as quiet as a ruined cathedral. Eustace started jawing like he was an expert on ruined cathedrals, causing Lucy to roll her eyes, me to groan and fold my arms across my chest, and Edmund to threaten to hit him if he didn't shut up. I had never been inside any cathedral at all, ruined or otherwise, (I don't think they even _had_ cathedrals in District 7-at least, I never saw any there), so I was pleased enough with the subject-change when it _finally_ came.

We were within only two miles or so of reaching the stream when the day ended and the Gamemakers released the muttations.

The first muttations they sent after us were tiny enough for a little girl to cup in her hands, glowed pale blue, and vaguely resembled stick insects with intricate, glass-like, gossamer wings.

They were so beautiful that at first we stood, as if in a trance, gazing at them; so delicate and pretty and _bright_.

It was Edmund who came back to himself first, grabbing Lucy and shoving her down into a hollow under a tree right before the impossibly fast flying blue-bug thingummies reached us.

They turned out to have stingers; horrid stingers that burned as they pierced the skin. The excruciating pain of only a few stings were enough to make you want to drop to the ground in surrender, _letting_ them kill you so it would simply be _over_.

Lucy didn't get any stings at all, hidden as she was in the tree hollow. Edmund sustained four stings before we out-ran the glowing swarm. I had about two or three. Eustace was the one who suffered the worst. He got four on his neck alone; and six or so on one of his arms.

He, having gotten the closest view of them, insisted afterward that if you squinted deeply enough into the glow of the mutt bugs and focused on what they really looked like behind the brightness, they appeared to resemble, quite amazingly, the dead girl tribute from District 6, Lilliandil. He even swore each bug had a head of long golden hair.

While I took the blue stingers out of Eustace's skin, Edmund went back for Lucy. I was worried, thinking the swarm of bugs might still be there, but he returned with Lucy and no fresh stings. He told me the bugs had obviously not been programed to live very long, as he'd seen them all on the ground, their blue glow gone as faint as a dying ember.

"Thank goodness it's over," muttered Eustace.

"Over?" Edmund shook his head. "Not by a long-shot. This can't be all they have planned. This is only our first warning. Why do you think these bugs didn't have hallucination-causing poison like tracker jackers? They want us to fight each other. That, or they send a worse set of mutts each time we refuse."

Lucy shuddered.

Eustace paled. " _Worse_?"

"This was nothing," Edmund said. "I mean, look how fast they died."

We suffered hungrily through a bitterly cold night before the next muttations arrived to torment us.

In addition to being cold, it was also dreadfully awkward as well.

This was wholly Edmund and Lucy's faults, although I know it wasn't intentional.

They, for lack of a better term, _snuggled_ together in their sleep; and seeing them tangled up in each others' arms was awful uncomfortable for Eustace and me, both too frozen to nod off as quickly as they had. The chilly air kept us both painfully conscious, pushing any shut-eye and temporarily soothing dreams far, far out of our reach. In the end, we slept as we had a few times before when it had been cold, back-to-back, but it wasn't the same. And I was certain we never got anywhere _near_ as warm as Edmund and Lucy were that night.

We woke to the sound of coon-dogs baying.

It was only two dogs, we realized, when they arrived-their long snouts smushed into the moist parts of the ground, smelling us out-but they had creepily familiar eyebrows and almost human facial expressions, which I later figured out were identical to the tributes from District 8; the boy who blew up on the first day, and the girl, Cecilia.

Like the glowing bugs that came before them, they lasted only a few hours before expiring.

That was when the white owls showed up. There were dozens of them, some circling like vultures, others swooping down on us while snapping their razor-sharp silvery beaks.

Lucy and I took six out with our arrows before we realized how similar these owls' faces were to poor dead Glimfeather from District 12.

This similarity was so overt that, unlike the others, it hit me while still in the arena. It was more traumatic than anything else the Gamemakers had sent by that point, because I'd-along with Eustace-seen Glimfeather killed by a mutt.

Anticipating a death every bit as gruesome as his, administered by a bird-muttation, I began to hyperventilate.

Eustace and Edmund grabbed onto my arms and pulled me out of the path of the swooping mutt-owls the moment they noticed my breathing had changed to frantic panting and I'd dropped my bow and arrow on the ground.

"Edmund!" screamed Lucy.

He whirled around, sword in hand, and cut off the head of a low-flying owl directly behind him.

"Oh, well done District 7!" cried Eustace approvingly.

I struggled to make my breathing return to normal. My vision blurred. I felt unsteady on my feet. Some of the owls were dying off, and many that weren't were taken out by us fighting as hard as we could, but the few that were still alive seemed to increase in strength and determination without warning.

They flew between myself and Eustace and Edmund and Lucy. (I think they were actually trying to get me and Edmund on one side of the arena, Lucy and Eustace on the other, but that didn't happen.) Two birds-of the four remaining-chased Eustace and I upstream. The other two forced Lucy and Edmund to retreat in the other direction altogether.

A tip of a bird's beak grazed my arm, causing it to become sticky with hot blood. Eustace's ear was bitten, also covered in gushing crimson blood.

That was when I saw the berries. The nightlock and the coma berries. The same berries Edmund and Lucy had used to fake their own death.

And I wondered, was it possible to pretend such a thing on a _larger_ scale? Could the Gamemakers, the ultimate bullies of these games-far, far worse than any Careers or their allies had _ever_ been-be taken in by the same trick?

I glanced pointedly at the berries, and then at Eustace.

I couldn't voice my idea. Not if I wanted it to be successful. For that would inform the Gamemakers immediately of our deception. There was no chance of survival if I was stupid enough to speak my plan aloud, where any number of microphones might pick up on it.

All I could do was look at him; for I needed his help.

I couldn't tell the berries apart very well myself, but I knew Eustace could.

"I want to go home," I said quietly. "I can't take this anymore."

He took a step nearer the berry-filled bushes. I hoped he would understand that I didn't want to kill myself; I only wanted it to _look_ as if both of us were killing ourselves.

"Are you sure?" Eustace asked, beginning to quickly gather up berries. So quickly, it was impossible to tell which ones he'd gathered.

" _Edmund and Lucy_ wouldn't hold it against us," I said, hoping he discerned the true meaning behind my emphasis; and that the Gamemakers _didn't_.

He raised his eyebrows and held out the berries to me, which I took to mean his consent to my plan.

In truth, I had no idea what would happen, even if we did succeed.

Where would we be when the effects of the berries wore off? Somewhere with the other dead tributes' bodies?

The thought made me ill.

Only, I couldn't bear being in that arena any longer.

There is only so much a person can take, and I had reached that limit. Even if we funked the plan and ate the wrong berries-those nightlock thingummies-we'd still be better off. I didn't want to die, but if I did, quick poison might jolly well be a more comfortable way to go than a piercing owl-beak to the throat, slowing bleeding to death on the arena ground.

I supposed the audience was enjoying our little 'I wish I was dead' charade, because the owls had left us alone since Eustace began picking those berries.

He held a handful out to me and swallowed his own handful before the cameras could get a close look at which ones he'd taken. And I did the same, not wishing to get a close-up and be caught.

I felt my body go limp as I crumbled to the ground, eyes closed, strength gone out of my arms and legs.

It had been a pretty big handful, and I'd swallowed them awfully fast.

I hoped that was all right.

Two cannons boomed, one after the other.

The sound of the hovercraft whizzed over our heads, sounding far away yet easily picked-up. I can't fully explain it, but that's how it was.

Arms and ropes scooped me up. I didn't stir. _Couldn't_ stir.

There was the feeling of motion, of flying. Then nothing. Stillness. The blackness behind my eyes pitched up and down the way I imagine visible surroundings do once you get off of a boat after being at sea for a while.

The air got staler. I felt panicked. I was in something small and dark and I knew it. I hated small dark places. But I couldn't even hyperventilate, not under the effects of the berries.

Something zipped closed over me.

I wanted to cry but couldn't.

Something a little further away seemed to zip, too, but not as long, almost as if it was only closed part of the way before whoever was doing the zipping was called away.

"Frank! Frank!" a voice, from another room (I supposed) bellowed.

Hours later, my legs tingled and my eyes opened.

I could move again!

Then I took in that I could see nothing but black all around me.

It was the feeling of being buried alive.

I couldn't take it, I started to yelp.

The zipper above me was pulled back and a hand clamped over my mouth. "Jill!"

I relaxed a little.

At any rate, I stopped trying to scream.

It was Eustace; thank goodness.

When the berries had worn off of him, he'd found himself in a black body bag, not properly closed.

He'd been confused, at first, upon climbing out, trying to figure out which bag contained me, and which contained only dead bodies. And I know that had to have been quite the ordeal for him, since he hated germs and dead things with a passionate fear almost as bad as my fear of closed-in spaces and deep holes.

Ironically, the very yelp he'd put his hand over my mouth to muffle had alerted him to which bag I was in.

But he was right to keep me quiet; a yelling Hunger Games' corpse _would_ have been a tad suspicious.

He took my hand and helped me out of the bag and down from the long metal table it had been laid across.

I should have just run, I should never have stopped to look around, but my curiosity got the better of me.

The room was white and black, like a chess board, dotted with body bags, all of which, I knew, contained empty shells of the tributes that had died for real.

How could I have ever thought, even for a moment, we could pull the wool over the eyes of a government that could do _this_ to children?

Two of the smallest bags, I was certain, contained the bodies of poor little Primrose from 12, and harmless, pretty Gael from 4.

Oh, _District 4_! Peridan was here, too. His body, at least. He, his mind, his consciousness, was gone. That was gone _for ever_.

It almost wouldn't have been so bad, being haunted by their angry spirits if only it meant part of them were still alive someplace else. But I knew that simply wasn't so. They were gone-sleeping, as it were. But not a peaceful sleep; rather, they had the rest of the unjustly treated.

They wouldn't haunt the living for _real_ ; but they might return in a dream and torment me any time my consciousness slipped away from my grasp.

No, I would join them soon.

The Capitol would find out Eustace and I had deceived them and kill us.

Perhaps publicly, even. To show that rebels are not punished lightly.

Or, maybe, to hide their own shame, they would slit our throats and keep alive the urban myth that we died in the Hunger Games.

Yes, _that_ was what they would do.

I crumpled to the floor and put my hands over my face, weeping steadily.

I would never get out, I thought, _never_!

Better for us both if Eustace had misunderstood and given me the nightlock for _real_!

Suddenly I felt arms wrap around me, and Eustace-sounding nothing like himself and yet _completely_ like himself, in a way I can't explain-was whispering comforting things to me, telling me we _could_ get out. That we were almost there, in fact, only a little farther. We would escape. After that, he didn't know, but we'd figure it out together.

"I feel as if I am trapped at the bottom of Panem's deepest hole," I whispered, trembling in his arms. "I keep screaming and screaming and no can hear." I took in a shaky breath. "Because there isn't anyone left."

"Jill," he said gently, pulling me up to my feet and grasping my wrists to take my hands off of my face, " _I'm_ still here. _I_ hear you. And I'm not going to leave you."

"P-promise?" I stammered.

"I _promise_ ," he said, being strong for me in a way I had never thought he could.

We crept out of the room, out through a pair of glass-framed double doors.

The hallway was white and long. Also very cold, though not as cold as the arena. Every once in a while, I saw a small cloud of my own breath, but nothing worse than that.

We didn't see anyone, but we knew we couldn't try to get out of the building as we were, dressed in tattered Hunger Games' doublets and tights, covered in blood.

No, it wouldn't do.

We needed to be inconspicuous if we wanted to get free and _stay_ free.

Fortunately, we found a coat-room, full of capes and cloaks and hats. There was even a white dress with clear crystal beads that would have been pretty if the design itself were a bit less gaudy. I wondered what kind of a person would take off a dress when they entered a building and _why_ ; I wasn't certain I actually _wanted_ to know the answer to that, however.

There was also a snug jerkin that would fit as close as a doublet, which would be all right for Eustace to change into. It wouldn't look any worse than the Hunger Games clothing after so much wear and tear.

"There's a rolled up pair of tights and a set of tube socks in this coat pocket," I noted, baffled.

What kind of round the bend nut carried tights and tube socks in their pockets?

"Are those _underpants_?" said Eustace, looking over his shoulder and pointing at a piece of cloth sticking out from the bottom of what I'd taken for a crack in the wall. "Ew."

"What in the world...?" I walked over and put my hand into the crack and pulled.

It was a _door_.

Beyond the door was a closet almost as big as the coat-room itself. Hundreds of jackets and coats and dresses and tunics and jerkins and any other kind of clothing you can imagine hung from hangers; and there were any amount of cubby-holes full of more clothing and odd little trinkets like costume jewelry and wooden or glass figurines.

Some of the odds and ends (including, yes, underpants) were on the brown thinly-carpeted floor.

"What _is_ this?" blurted Eustace, gaping at all the clothing.

I flicked on a light-switch I found by the door. "There's so much stuff..." I gasped, seeing it all the more clearly.

"Where did it all come from?" asked Eustace.

"I-" I began, then stopped. "Look!" I ran to a hanger labeled ' _Seven_ ' from which there hung a tweed overcoat. "I know this coat. Edmund was wearing the same one at the reaping."

Eustace shuddered. "Oh!"

"What? What is it?"

"This must be where they keep it all, then."

"Keep what?"

"All the clothing the tributes are wearing before their stylists take over. All their little things they bring with them on the train coming here..."

Next to Edmund's coat, I found the clothing I'd been wearing on the train, also labeled ' _Seven_ '.

"Come on," I said, "let's take some things from the back. They won't be remembered as well as anything from this year, or last."

But the moment I saw the coats and dresses and the little suit (having probably belonged to a twelve year old boy tribute) in the middle rows gathering dust on the shoulders, I quivered and my knees buckled.

How terribly quickly tributes were forgotten and replaced each year!

I almost collapsed, but Eustace caught me.

Eustace picked out a pair of black tights and a faded blue tunic I thought was probably royal blue once, before it faded to a lighter sky-like blue. And a pair of slightly scuffed-up black boots.

I picked out buckled shoes, a woolen skirt, a light pink sweater, and a white blouse.

After we'd changed, we went for the cloaks in the coat-room.

I grabbed a brownish-gray cloak with a hood, and Eustace snagged a black cape that was so plain-looking I was sure nobody would miss it. To cover his head, he found a fedora two sizes too big.

"Does this hat make me look stupid?" he wanted to know.

"Can I pass on commenting?" I asked, biting my lower lip. He _did_ look stupid, but he'd been so kind and helpful to me-I knew I couldn't have done any of this without him-and I didn't want to insult him.

He rolled his eyes, looking annoyed.

I reached out, grabbed his hand, and, leaning forward, I tilted my head, kissing him on the lips.

He said something not particularly intelligent-sounding; rather to the effect off, "Uh...Um...uh...duh...uh..."

"Eustace," I said softly, "your face is turning the most awful red colour."

"I...uh...what?"

I squeezed his hand. "Never took you for a blusher," I teased.

He leaned forward and kissed me back. "So, the hat?" he asked, pulling away.

"Looks stupid on you," I admitted bashfully.

"Yes, it does, doesn't it?" (But he wore it anyway.) "At least no one will recognize me in it."

"Thank you, Eustace," I said, knowing I had to. "For everything...and back there...with all the body bags... I wouldn't have... I was too scared..."

He nodded. "I feel like a hero."

"Well, don't go getting a big head," I teased. "The hat will fit and then everybody will recognize you."

"Oh, very funny."

" _I_ thought so."

It wasn't easy, getting out of the building. Especially since almost every door we came to had a warning that read, " _Door is equipped with an alarm system, please scan ID card before opening_ ," except, by the fifth door we tried, Eustace discovered an old Hunger Games' stylist's card in the pocket of the inside of his cape.

"What do you think our chances are?" Eustace whispered nervously. "This person probably hasn't worked for the Hunger Games in _decades_."

"Try it," I sighed. "It's all we've got right now."

He nodded grimly and slid it through the slot, pushing a few numbers on the keypad.

 _Access Granted_ flashed in green on a monitor at the top of the door.

"At least the computer doesn't know this stylist retired," Eustace commented.

I smiled and lurched to the side with relief. "Where do we go from here?"

"The street, maybe," said Eustace. "Blend in."

"Our faces are dirty," I noted.

"We can't be the only ones."

That was true, and the fedora, for all its looking stupid on him, accomplished the task of covering up his bloodied ear. "Right."

"What if we need medical attention, though?"

"We'll get it someplace else, but not here," I stated.

"Then let's leave."

"Don't look back," I told him.

He intertwined his fingers with mine. "No chance of that."


	33. Chapter 33: Edmund

Two cannons boom, one after the other.

"What was that?" Lucy asks, her eyes wide with fear.

I notice the owls that were chasing us have died.

Putting two and two together, I nod sadly at Lucy, confirming it was in fact what she thinks it was.

Tributes' cannons.

Eustace and Jill are gone.

Lucy and I are are the last two alive in the arena.

We are not from the same district. We can't both win. The gamemakers will only let _one_ of us out of this arena alive.

Half a day goes by before something happens.

We're expecting it, of course. The Capitol viewers can't stand to be bored; goodness forbid they should find a spare minute to do something _productive_. But the horror on our faces when the new mutts arrive is as real as it would be if we were caught off-guard.

A pack of incredibly fast gray and white wolves comes howling and baying in our direction. Some are small and sleek (fast jumpers, would be my guess), while others are pretty dashed large.

I take Lucy's hand and start running, the pack staying hard on our heels.

"Lucy, if we get to higher ground," I have to shout over the howling and the wind rushing through our ears, "how many do you think you can shoot with your arrows?"

"I don't know," she shouts back, "but I can try to take out the biggest ones first."

We make it up a tall hill.

Most of the wolves are lagging behind slightly, but the two smallest are only a few feet away.

"Take them out first," I tell Lucy. I know she's planning on getting rid of the bigger ones, but that won't do us any good if the little ones wound us first, making it easier for those more sizable wolves to come and finish us off.

Before Lucy can shoot, however, one of the little ones gets close enough so that we can see its eyes.

Lucy pales. "It can't be..."

"What?" The eyes... There _is_ something off about them, not right, only I can't place what it is.

"Gael," she says, faltering.

I want to vomit.

Because, she's right, actually.

Those _are_ Gael's eyes.

Not her real eyes (I don't think), but still an exact replica, staring out at us from a highly-dangerous mutt.

The other little one, growling, comes up.

"Prim," I say.

These are the disbelieving yet hopeful eyes of the girl I let out of the net that brought about Emeth's death. There's no mistaking them.

 _Emeth_.

If there is a Prim and a Gael, could one of these wolves be an Emeth?

The Gael-wolf leaps to attack Lucy.

I hear myself screaming, at the top of my lungs, "It's not her! She's dead! Shoot it, _shoot_ it!" terrified Lucy won't do what she has to.

She shoots the wolf. An arrow hits its chest. And she's sobbing, to the dying mutt on the arena ground, as she fits another arrow into the bow-string. "I'm so sorry..."

Prim-wolf dies in a sudden landslide that narrowly misses myself and Lucy.

In the time it takes the wolves to go around the hill that's no longer fully accessible to them, I decide our best chance is to climb a tree. I know trees. I can keep myself and Lucy as safe as we can get at this stage in games in a tree.

A medium-sized wolf catches us just as we're almost to the tree I've picked out at random.

I notice this wolf is different from the others; he's got a pair of spectacles resting on his moist black nose.

 _Ash_.

I run it through with my sword, avoiding its eyes.

I'm afraid if I look too deeply into them, I'll think-even if only for a moment-I really am looking at Ash, and try to spare him, only to give the creature time to kill me and Lucy both.

As I'm drawing out the blood-covered sword, another wolf catches up to us and, before I can stop it, bites down hard onto Lucy's ankle.

I kill it and wrench her bloodied ankle free.

In the few seconds it takes for the wolf's eyes to close in death, I see which one it was.

It was Foxface.

I climb the tree as best I can with only one arm, holding tightly onto Lucy (who can't climb well with her ankle bleeding like that), so she doesn't fall, with the other.

Looking down from the branch I'm sitting on, I see that the rest of the pack is at the base of the tree, snapping their jaws.

Most of them are standing on their hind-legs, front paws pressed against the trunk.

Because I'm not so high as I'd like, I can catch glimpses of their eyes. I can see which tribute each one is supposed to represent.

The one with the bristled fur and the angriest glare is Cato, hands down. The one right beside him (how fitting!) is Clove.

Then there's a Lilliandil-wolf (she's the prettiest wolf of the lot, all glowing white fur and starry-yet rage filled-eyes), an Andrew-wolf (his eyes are very shiny, and I notice he keeps doing this weird thing where he rubs one paw over the other), a Jadis-wolf (her fur is even whiter than Lilliandil-wolf's but with less of a glowing quality) and a Lasaraleen-wolf (dark brown-eyes laced with a somewhat dim-witted expression).

In fact, there's a wolf for every single tribute who's died.

Even the less than memorable ones. Like the girl from District 10. And both pathetic tributes from 9. There's also the boy from 8 who got blown up on the first day.

Naturally, there's an Emeth.

A lump forms in throat when I finally find Emeth-wolf among the pack.

Part of me wants to cry, "I'm so sorry," as Lucy did. Another part of me wants to throw a stone. No, two stones. One at this mutt, and another at the gamemakers for making it.

Emeth's eyes...

I highly doubt they _ever_ looked this evil back when they didn't belong to a wolf.

My heart pounds when I see a wolf with hazel eyes.

Poor Jill...

I wonder how she went.

Will they blame me, if I live through this? Back home, I mean. Will they say if I'd teamed up with her like the rule-change called for, we _both_ could have lived?

But that's moot.

I'm not _going_ home.

Because, if only one of us can live, I want it to be Lucy.

There's the Eustace-wolf, growling at Lucy.

But Lucy's eyes aren't on the muttation that looks like her cousin. Instead, she's staring at another wolf. One I haven't had the time to get a good look at.

When I twist myself round and see its eyes, I almost fall out of the tree with shock, steadying my body-and Lucy's-just in time.

Those aren't a dead tribute's blue eyes looking up at us from inside the pretty, small-boned wolf-mutt.

They're Lucy's.

Much as I search the faces of the wolves below me, I can't find an Edmund.

That's when I know. When I understand what they mean. What they're telling me by all this. What the gamemakers-and the most important viewers-want.

They don't want Lucy Pevensie from District 1, sister of past victor Peter Pevensie, to be the victor of the 77th Hunger Games.

They want Edmund Martin from District 7.

 _Me_.

They want _me_ to win.

Must have for a while now. They couldn't have made all these mutts on a moment's notice and left me out at the last minute. This is part of a plan formed midway through the games at _latest_.

Lucy lets out a cry of pain.

"Lu?"

"I..." Her eyes fill with tears. "I think some of the stitches in my back...I think they came open..."

No, No, No, _No_! Not here. Not now.

Why does this have to happen when I can't possibly help her?

I know what is expected of me.

I'm meant to wait mutely till Lucy dies and the hovercraft comes for me. Or, if I'm cold-hearted enough, to throw her down to the wolves so it happens quicker.

But I refuse. I _refuse_!

I have done everything the Capitol ever asked me to do, and they've taken away everything from me. But they can't take _her_. Not Lucy. I won't let them take away the one person I'm completely sure I would give up my own life for. I don't care that's she's a bloody blasted Career! I love her, and she loves me. And the Capitol is not going to get between us. Not again. Not like they did when I ended our alliance and told her not to be in the cave when I got back.

Taking a deep-somewhat raspy-breath, I pull Lucy into my arms and hold her as close to me as possible.

She moans and rests her head on the front of my shoulder, her hairline almost touching my neck.

"Hey!" I call out-to the viewers, to the Capitol, to anyone who will listen. "You let her die, and I swear on everything in this bloody arena, and everything in District 7, I will find away to kill myself before your blasted hovercraft can get to me." My facial muscles clench with rage. "That's right, try and kill her! She's right here. She doesn't have the strength to fight anymore. Neither of us do. But do it, and you won't have a victor this year."

Lucy tries to say something, but I whisper for her to be quiet. I'm hoping the Capitol will be so angered by my demand that they'll kill me and save her. Bring her back to her brother, to District 1, where she belongs. Let _her_ be the victor, not _me_.

They must know I'm serious. I mean, they all saw me put those berries in my mouth. They all saw how close I was to swallowing when I'd thought Lucy was dead. Surely, they know I'm not bluffing.

They let her die here, sound off that blasted cannon of theirs, and this will be the first time in seventy-seven years they haven't had a victor.

I'll fling myself to the wolves if I have to.

Golly, I'll even let Cato-wolf be the one to kill me if need be!

"That's it," I shout, my voice loaded with sarcasm, "take your time, even though she's going..." I swallow hard. "And that means so am I..."

An announcement blasts through the speakers. " _Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to present the victors of the seventy-seventh Hunger Games: the girl from District 1, and the boy from District 7-Edmund Martin and Lucy Pevensie_!"

"We did it," whispers Lucy, blinking up at me. "I knew we would."

"Yeah," I say, half-lying, "me too."

The sound of the hovercraft coming down is deafening. If it didn't mean letting go of Lucy, I would probably cover my ears. As it is, I just cling to her all the more tightly and grit my teeth.

Soon it will all be over.

No more mutts. No more games. Two victors-for the first time in Hunger Games' history.

Some might have thought there would be two victors this year anyway, though not from different districts, but now I think I know better.

After seeing all the mutts, one for each of us except me, I don't think they ever _really_ intended to let there be two winners this year.

I bet they would have revoked the rule at the last minute.

Just to watch two kids from the same district suffer as they had to fight one another.

It would have been a stunning finale. I'll give it that. Sick, but so engrossing no viewer could have turned away.

But thanks to my threat, they've let us both live.

I'll probably pay for it somehow, but it can't be too bad. They can't do anything _much_ to me, outside of the arena. Not as long as I'm a new victor, constantly in the public eye. Besides, being in the arena has taught me something: how to survive whatever horrors they throw at me. I'll be all right. And so will Lucy. Nothing else matters.

The hovercraft is directly above us, lowering a rope.

Holding onto Lucy's waist, I grasp the rope and let them pull us up.

I think we'll be together for the ride to wherever it is they usually take the victor after the Hunger Games, though I'm a bit fuzzy on the details, since that part's not broadcast (we don't see the victor on the telly again till their first post-games interview), but I'm mistaken.

Right away, the first thing they do, is yank Lucy out of my grasp.

I don't know where they're taking her, and, in a moment of irrational paranoia, I'm terrified they mean to kill her, then make it seem like she bled to death before the Capitol doctors could help her and so there was only one victor after all.

So I scream her name several times while a team of really big men dressed in some kind of Capitol-job uniforms hold onto my arms to keep me in place.

She's screaming my name, too, as they drag her off.

I almost break free from the grasp of the uniformed men when one of them clamps his hand over my mouth and nose. In his hand is a damp handkerchief that reeks of wet chemicals.

The moment I inhale, my world goes black.

I wake up feeling motion under me.

A team of people in white smocks are wheeling me, sprawled out on a metal-racked bed, down a long white-and-gray hallway.

My head is killing me and I think I might scream from the searing pain in all of my Hunger Games' wounds. Every cut and bruise feels so much worse here than in the arena.

I assume there is an actual use of some sort for the small bucket of ice chips a young woman with bright blue curls sticking out from under a white cap hands me, but instead of figuring out what that is, exactly, I decide it would be more effective to sit up in my moving bed and pelt the white smock-wearing people with them.

I'm almost through half the ice chips in the bucket before somebody takes it away from me.

"Here, swallow this," one of the men in white smocks tells me. He hands me a tiny green pill.

For some reason, I don't argue, I just swallow the thing.

It's so little and smooth I don't even need to wash it down with water.

"Now," says the man-to the others in smocks, not me, "this muscle relaxant...well, it might make him a bit paranoid at first..."

For a moment, I just feel dazed. I stare at them all, uncomprehending

Then, suddenly, I'm squinting over the shoulder of the white smock nearest me, at something glittering silver. "Hey! Why is there a pineapple on that counter? See that silver thing? Does that look like a pineapple to you?" I tug on the sleeve of the man who handed me the pill. "I think that pineapple is out to get me." I feel frightened, but oddly enough I don't feel like throwing things anymore.

"All right," says the woman with the blue curls, "let's get this kid some Morphling."

"It's in his room," somebody answers her.

They're wheeling my bed faster now.

"Wait!" I cry out, sounding like I do after I've had one too many drinks over Johanna's. "What about my pineapple?"

No, I tell myself inwardly, while outwardly I'm still seemingly dismayed about being wheeled away from the silver thing, forget about the bloody pineapple for a second! There's something else... Something else important... Somebody, in trouble... You need to help them... Help them... Help _her_...

My bed stops in a room with a lot of beeping monitors. There are all these little flashing lights of blue, red, and green.

 _Lucy_! That's what I forgot.

"Where is she?" I demand, wishing I still had those ice chips even though my muscles feel like jelly now and I don't think I can _lift_ anything, let alone _throw_.

"Calm down."

"Don't tell me to calm down!" I shout. "What's happening? I need to know... I need to get this all straightened out... I need-" I'm cut off by a needle being thrust into my arm veins.

"Here you go, it's all right."

Everything is so soft and quiet. And whatever they just put in me feels good.

I actually hear myself sigh, out loud, "Ahh, that's nice," and feel a dopey grin forming on my face as my eyes begin to close. "Anyone for free pineapple slices?"

When I come back to myself, hours later, it's dark. All the lights are off and I'm alone.

I try to get up, but I'm strapped to the bed.

A white smock comes in an hour after some lights are turned back on, and gives me another dose of what I know has to be Morphling the minute I start screaming at him.

When that dose wears off, I find myself alone at what must be a luncheon break of some kind, because nobody's around even though this appears to be a full-scale hospital with counters and white desks and computers.

Time to find Lucy-if she's alive.

If they haven't hurt her.

I'm not strapped to the bed this time, but I am hooked up to an IV.

I grab onto the metal pole it's hanging from, delighted that it has wheels.

It hurts to walk. My legs feel wobbly. But I don't care. I don't care one bit. I force my unsteady legs to keep moving, using my IV stand as a cane when I feel them giving out on me.

I pass several rooms with folded beds and open doors. No patients. The first other person I see is an impossibly old white-bearded man who looks like he could be Lord Snow's grandfather or something. He must be unable to feed himself or get up to go to the bathroom, since he's got a feeding tube and there's a hole in his bed with a plastic pan under it. I also see a Hunger Games stylist (for District 2, I think) with a broken leg propped up.

But patients are few and far between. It's almost an hour, I think, between seeing the first patient and the second.

There are no windows leading outside, but there are windows over-looking private rooms.

A feeling comes over me and I stop to look into one, certain she's in there.

Sure enough, there's Lucy, in a wheeled bed, hooked up to some kind of machine.

I reach for the door, but it's locked.

I glance into the window again.

There's no signs of life. She's so still. Just like she was after eating those coma berries.

It takes a minute for me to register that she's not alone. There's somebody sitting in a chair by her side. A blonde man with blood-shot eyes, holding her hand.

 _Peter_.

I'm about to knock on the window in hopes of getting Peter's attention, so he can let me in, when a voice from behind me says, "Oh, we're not going to have another bad day today, are we, Mr. Martin?"

It's the woman-nurse, I guess-with blue curls. And she's holding up a Morphling-loaded needle.

Oh, not again...

I lurch to one side and grasp the metal IV pole tightly.

"Did your doctor authorize walks, young man? No, I do not believe he did."

"What's that machine she's hooked up to?" I blurt out, in what I guess is a calm enough voice that it keeps me from getting stabbed with a Morphling-needle straight-off.

The machine is odd. Something red-like blood-seems to be coming out of her, going round in a spin cycle, then going right back in her. I want to be sure it's all right. That it's not hurting her. I decide it can't be too bad, if Peter's not taking her off it, but I need to be sure.

"Oh, that's a blood-cleaner," says the nurse. "Basically, it takes blood out of her body and cleans it, adds nutrients, then it goes right back in. Now, back to your room with you."

"I want to see her," I insist.

"No," says the nurse.

"What? You can't-" I begin.

I never finish; I guess my tone was too rough. I'm given a Morphling injection that makes me easier to manage.

Next thing I know, I'm in bed, smiling stupidly up at the white ceiling.

I like that ceiling. It's a nice ceiling. So much whiter than white.

When the Morphling wears off, I'm surprised by a visitor.

My mentor, the lovely Johanna Mason.

I'm still a little mad at her, yet there's a part of me that's glad to see somebody-anybody I actually _know_.

"Edmund, I'm so happy to see you!" she cries, sounding uncharacteristically high-pitched.

"Johanna, are you drunk?"

Apparently so, as she sits on bed-railing and bends over to hug the living daylights out of me.

But as soon as her lips are in-line with my ear, she whisper-hisses, in a sober enough voice that I know this embrace isn't brought on by a drunken stupor after all, "Listen, you bum!" Johanna never has been one to mince words. "You messed up big time in there. Threatening the Capitol like that was the stupidest thing you've ever done. They'll find a way to get rid of you unless you prove to them that what you said was brought on by madness and teenage hormones- _not_ an act of rebellion."

As long as Lucy's not dead, and they're not going to kill her, I don't care about rebelling at this point.

I just want the bloody Capitol to leave us alone.

Though, there _is_ this nagging little voice in my head that tells me I might have started something worth while; posed a question to the viewers about the injustice that is the Hunger Games in a way no tribute has done before.

All I wanted was to save Lucy, but I could have started something that-without the Capitol spinning it their way-might get horribly out of control.

No, I don't _want_ that.

Yes, the Hunger Games are wrong. Yes, I hate them. Yes, nobody really knows what it's like in there except for the victors who have to live with those first-hand images haunting their memories. But I can't stand up against the Capitol and keep myself and Lucy alive. And after all I've done for that purpose, I do not intend to throw the one chance I've secured for the both of us away for some rebel cause!

Of course it was an act of love. Of course I wasn't challenging the Capitol. I'll say whatever they want, be that smiling boy falling out of his chariot again if it pleases them, if they'll only let me-and Lucy-go home.

I guess as my mentor Johanna is, to some extent, still in charge of me, in this hospital same as she was in the arena, because, at her demand, they lower the Morphling dosage and quit knocking me out every time I'm disagreeable to them. I even get wheeled into another (much larger) room with a big flat-screen television and my own remote control attached to my IV pole.

Once left alone, I'm flicking mindlessly through the channels, of which I have about fifty.

There's reruns of _Laurel's Worldly World_ on channel 3, and the series finale of _Emma Emerald_ on channel 11, but I somehow doubt many people are watching either soap.

Most folks are probably watching commentary on the Hunger Games.

Usually, since the majority of the commentary is not required viewing and the subject is so painful to those who have lost a family member or a friend in the games, the poorer districts (well, at least District 7 anyway... I'm not entirely sure about the others) don't watch them. But this time, since there are two victors, and it's this big historical moment, blah blah blah, more than average are likely tuning in.

On channel 10, I discover people I know from back in District 7 are being briefly interviewed.

Tumnus looks rather nervous in front of the camera and keeps asking if they've started filming yet.

As he doesn't say anything particularly interesting about me, they move on to the next person: Susan.

" _Oh_ ," says television-Susan in response to something they ask her, " _of course I would say my brother is a proud, completely loyal, ideal Panem citizen._ " She sounds off, like this is a line she has been practicing. " _He is an asset to the community._ "

They ask her something else-something obviously not covered in this stiff, defensive script she has worked out in her mind regarding what she will say about me.

So she does what any good-yet flustered and overly practical-sister would do: she repeats herself. " _Oh, of course I would say my brother is a proud, completely loyal, ideal..._ "

They cut away from her to my parents.

They're sitting side by side on the sofa. My father says very little. Mum, however, who looks like she hasn't slept a wink since I left, forces back a yawn and babbles on about how I've always been such a level-headed, pleasant person.

Really, Mum? Really? _This_ is what you're going to try to sell to the Capitol viewers? You couldn't even give it away! _Level-headed_? You have got to be joking. Either that or you've been hitting the wine a little too hard at supper.

Then she proceeds to launch into the story of the day she was in labor with me.

I wince.

My father manages to shut her up, signaling for the camera crew to cut, ignoring her half-hearted complaints of, " _But, darling, I was just getting to the part where the doctor sees his head!_ "

And, if that isn't bad enough, the next interview is so upsetting I seriously wish they would go back to Mum's labor story.

Anne Featherstone smiles 'sadly' at whoever is conducting the interview off-camera.

" _Hello, Anne, it's a pleasure to have the opportunity to speak with you_."

(Now there's a sentence you don't hear too often.)

" _Oh, I'm delighted to be on your show_ ," she replies demurely, batting her eyes in an incredibly annoying manner.

(I bet you are.)

" _Now, everyone who saw the interviews before this year's Hunger Games knows you were Edmund Martin's girlfriend._ "

" _That's right_." Television-Anne sits up a little straighter in her chair and sort of fluffs out her puffy light blue dress.

" _And the story is the gold pin he wore as a token was actually a gift from you_."

" _Also right_ ," she sighs dramatically. " _I gave it to him because, you see, we're both_ _very much in love_. _It would have simply broken my heart, you know, if he hadn't survived. And I had the most terrible feeling he wouldn't, and that this was going to be the end for us_..." Television-Anne brings a handkerchief to her eyes and dabs lightly, sniffling for added effect. " _So... I g-gave him the pin, and sent him off with my love_."

" _And how did you feel when you saw him falling for Lucy_?"

She looks puzzled, her brow crinkling. " _Who_?"

" _The girl from District 1. You know, the other victor_?"

" _Oh_ ," says television-Anne, her nose wrinkled and her voice full of disdain. "Her _. Well, it depends on what you mean, really. Was I hurt to see the love of my life all over some ugly girl on live television? Yes, of course. But, you see, I know he doesn't really love her. She rather strikes me as a, shall we say,_ loose _girl (and I suppose the poor thing has to be; in spite of everything, I do pity her-it must be positively lonesome, being so painfully plain), and in a moment or two of weakness I suppose he found some pleasure with her. But, certainly, he'll want me back when he returns to District 7_."

All right, this is wrong on _so_ many levels!

First off, Lucy is _not_ ugly.

Second, the day I go crawling back to Anne, is the day I swallow broken glass for fun and have the Capitol broadcast _that_ on live television!

" _So you're saying, he loves you, not Lucy_?"

" _Of course_."

" _Then how do you explain his out-burst at the end of the games_?"

" _Madness_ ," she says coolly. " _My poor Edmund must have been completely off of his head by that point_."

" _Are you suggesting the_ government-approved _Hunger Games drove him mad_?" There is an edge in the interviewer's voice that I swear was not there a moment ago.

She blushes. " _No, not really_." Television-Anne chews on the inside of her cheek for a moment, as if in deep thought. " _I think it was guilt. See, he loves me, and he knew I was waiting for him... And the guilt of knowing I had seen him betray me like that, even seen him give my pin-my token of love-to that girl he barely knew... Well, it was too much for him_."

"What we need is a way to shut her up," says a voice from the currently open doorway, making me jump.

It's Johanna.

"Hey," I mumble by way of greeting.

"Honestly, if she keeps running her mouth like that, she's going to blow up everything I've been trying to keep under control. Thankfully, she's so delightfully dim that I don't think anyone actually believes her. At least, for now they don't."

"Why would they?" I demand hoarsely. "It's all lies."

"Of course it is," says Johanna, in a testy voice, her eyes darkening. "You're in love with Lucy. And you'll _stay_ in love with Lucy." It sounds like she's ordering-or even threatening-me.

But she doesn't have to. I don't have to pretend. All of that in the arena was real. I love Lucy, not Anne. Nothing is going to change that. And if my loving Lucy will keep us all from being put on trial as rebels, then it's a win-win, isn't it?

Though, one would think, if they want me to act like I love Lucy Pevensie, they would perhaps...oh, I don't know...let me _see_ Lucy Pevensie?

Instead, they scold me and threaten to raise my Morphling dosage again if I leave my hospital bed for any other purpose than to relieve myself.

Go figure.

"How is she?" I need to know.

Johanna shrugs. "She'll live." She turns her head, twisting her neck to look over her shoulder. "Peter's coming. If you want, you can ask _him_. This is the first time he's left her side."

Suddenly I'm a bit nervous about meeting him again.

I was glad to see him sitting with Lucy. I'm not so glad to know he's coming to see _me_. Because I don't know what he thinks about what happened between me and his sister in the arena.

A small voice, in the very back of my head, whispers, "What if he's mad at me?" And immediately, I'm furious with myself for caring so much. Like it matters what he thinks. Well, all right, so maybe it does, a _little_ -he is her brother, after all-but _still_.

However, upon entering the room, he doesn't talk to me right away. Barely even glances in my direction. He's too busy speaking tersely to the doctor, who has walked into my room alongside him.

"She looks unhealthy," insists the doctor, peevish.

"She _is_ ," snaps Peter. "Otherwise she wouldn't be here, now would she?"

"Mr. Pevensie, you need to understand I'm not a bloomin' magician," the doctor says, closing his eyes and reaching up to rub his eyelids tiredly. "I can't make her look presentable in one week."

"I didn't ask you to."

"Fair enough. True, _you_ didn't; but it's what everybody expects, and you know that perfectly well."

"She's fourteen," Peter all but growls, "and I'm her legal guardian. And I said no surgical enhancements."

"You cannot honestly expect your sister to appear on television looking like she's anorexic."

"Let her stylist worry about her appearance," he says. "You're a doctor. So be one."

"Mr. Pevensie-"

"Or," says Peter, smiling tightly, "I would be happy to spread the word about how you had to bribe-oh, I'm sorry, I mean ' _donate_ resources of a monetary fashion'-to get your medical license after failing the written exam."

The doctor's face goes as gray as a stone. "What?"

"You heard me."

"How did you...?"

"Don't feel too bad, Doc," Johanna says sardonically, leaning against the wall with her arms folded across her chest, "I'm sure whomever told him about that was probably drunk when they ratted you out."

"Fine, no surgeries," grunts the doctor.

"Good." Peter's facial muscles relax.

"Hey, Pete," I croak out, making my voice sound just a little weaker than it actually is.

It can't hurt to have him pity me a little bit.

"Hello, Edmund," he replies. His voice is somewhere between wary and grateful. I can't read his expression.

"Lucy..."

He nods. "She's recovering."

"Her back..."

"They fixed the stitches. You didn't do a half-bad job, though, all things considered." That ring of gratitude I sensed under his wariness is back in his voice.

I take in a deep breath and release it. She's going to be all right. And between Peter and I, we can make sure nobody ever hurts her again. She can't be in the reaping again, now that she's a victor. Now she will be safe.

"Do you mind giving us a minute alone?" Peter asks as the nurse with blue curls comes in with my luncheon on a plastic tray.

Johanna rolls her eyes but turns to leave anyway. The doctor obeys as well. And the nurse stays only a minute longer, setting the tray on a wheeled metal table painted to look like wood.

Then she, too, leaves.

I wait for Peter to clout me. Or at least hit me on the back of the head. For him to accuse me of playing with his sister's emotions while having a girlfriend back home.

But he doesn't.

Instead, he gives me a hug. Almost like he's welcoming me to the family or something. I wonder if a safe fell on his head this morning.

"Listen," he says, letting go of me.

I'm too startled to do anything _but_ listen.

"There are some things," he continues, "about being a victor, that you don't know... I can't explain them here... I don't think this is the best place for that conversation. But, what you did, I think you may have helped rescue Lucy from that. I didn't want to admit I was unsure how I was going to do that myself." He closes his eyes and grimaces, pained. "Not to mention, I understood what they meant when they sent out those wolves. They wanted you. And you wouldn't let them have you without her."

"That's when you decided to trust me," I realize.

He nods. "Yes." Swallowing hard he adds, "The games aren't over yet. You're out of the literal arena, but only on the threshold of a bigger-less visible-one. There are more contestants. More than one victor- _sometimes_. But it's still life or death. I need you to know that I'm your ally. Johanna, too."

"You're still a Career," I find myself blurting out. And I'm the victor from District 7. And him, myself, and Johanna (the mentor who almost let me _die_ in there) are supposed to be able to trust each other completely? That does seem like a bit of a stretch.

He doesn't seem offended. "So is Lucy," is all he says.

I can't argue with that.

"I'm going to help you _both_ as much as I can," Peter assures me. "I owe you that much, Edmund Martin."

I look at my luncheon.

A dish of applesauce, one slice of bread, and a cookie.

That's all I get?

Peter seems to understand. "Trust me, you won't be able to finish it. Your stomach has probably shrunk. I had a serious problem keeping anything down the year I won."

"I'm a little tired," I say.

"Get some sleep," he tells me, heading for the door.

I stare blankly at my luncheon again, my eyes somewhat misty.

"Oh, and Edmund?"

I blink rapidly to clear my vision before glancing at him.

"Try not to wander off."

The nurse must have mentioned my wandering to him. Either that or he saw me at the window-looking in at him at his sister's bedside, wishing I could be in there, too-and just didn't let on.

"Especially not tonight," he adds, arching a light brow pointedly. "There's a chance some locks in this building might malfunction due to an emergency test of the whole system and I would hate for you to end up on the wrong side of the door."

I pick up on his meaning, remembering the automated lock on Lucy's door.

A small grin forms on my face.

"There is one thing I have to ask you," he says, before he goes.

"What?"

"You weren't pretending in the arena, were you?"

"No," I say truthfully.

"Your girlfriend, back in District 7..."

"It's over," I tell him.

His face, momentarily stern, softens. "See you later, then." And he's gone.

Peter turns out to be right. I can't make myself finish the applesauce and the bread. I never even start on the cookie.

In fact, my mind is so used to saving food for later, not knowing during the games when my next meal would be, that I actually hide the cookie under my pillow. I don't think the white smocks will take it away from me, but one can never be too sure.

I accidentally sit on my remote control and change the channel over to something to do with a tiger cub named Thirsty Parker at the Capitol zoo.

I sleep for several hours, waking up again when it's dark and nobody is on duty.

Then I climb out of bed.

Although I, at first, intend to wheel my IV pole like I did last time, the squeak of the wheels goes through my head like nails on a chalkboard and I change my mind.

Even though it hurts, I peel off the medical tape on the back of my hands and under my wrists and draw out the needles.

Not my most well thought-out, practical decision, but once I start it's too late to stop. And, besides, not being tied down to a pole makes me feel like less of a prisoner here.

By the time I make it to Lucy's room, I'm exhausted.

But the door is unlocked this time, and I slip right on in.

She's sleeping, semi-peacefully, moaning a couple of times here and there. She looks painfully thin. Her weight loss is much more apparent here than in the arena.

Her eyes open and for a moment she just stares at me as if she can't believe I'm really here, in the room.

"Edmund!" she cries out, her voice slightly raspy.

I sit on the edge of the bed. "Hullo, Lu."

She sits up and throws her arms round my neck. "I've missed you so much."

"They wouldn't let me see you," I tell her.

"I asked for you so many times when I woke up," Lucy says. "They said I was unconscious for a while. Only Peter would tell me anything at all about you (everyone else just pretended they didn't hear me). He said Johanna was making sure you were all right."

I kiss her forehead and stroke the side of her face with my hand. "I was afraid they would..."

"They announced us both as victors, Ed," she whispers gently; "they couldn't do that."

I'm not so sure. I think they could have. As long as they found some way to make her death seem like it was out of their hands. But, thankfully, they didn't.

"You're cold," Lucy notes.

"The hallway has the air blasting," I say.

She pulls the white hospital covers back and lets me come under them with her. She clings to my hand and presses her forehead against mine. I slip my other arm around her waist and make a silent wish that our victory over the Hunger Games will not be short-lived.


	34. Chapter 34: J

"Do you trust me?" Eustace asked, holding up a very sharp steel knife.

I nodded, clenching my jaw to hold back a round of nervous tears, and held out my arm to him.

We were in an alleyway behind one of the northeastern-side Capitol's butcher shops, dustbins and rubbish heaps on either side of us.

The butcher had left his window open a crack, and one of his great steel knives unattended on the sill. It had been easy as anything for Eustace to reach up and take it, slinking quickly afterward into the shadows of the alleyway so as not to be caught.

We'd been talking, and Eustace was afraid of what might happen should the Gamemakers or other Capitol officials involved in the Hunger Games re-activate our trackers upon discovering we weren't dead; that we had escaped.

The scene wouldn't have been pretty, I knew. They'd surely have come after us and killed us both as quickly and quietly as possible. And not even our parents would have the slightest idea we'd died on the street, or in a Capitol-owned prison somewhere, and not in the final four of the 77th Hunger Games. So cutting out the tracker was the only logical thing to do.

Of course I trusted Eustace, but I was still scared.

Not that I would have admitted it, naturally.

Nor would he, though I knew he was.

Likely, his fear was deeper than mine; I had a stronger stomach for the sight of blood back then than poor Eustace Scrubb ever will in a thousand years.

Eustace took my out-stretched wrist and rolled back my sweater sleeve. As he brought the knife down, close to breaking the skin, I noticed him wincing, closing his eyes part-way in the process.

"Don't shut _your_ eyes!" I hiss-cried in exasperation.

It was one thing, all well and good, for _me_ to shut _my_ eyes to the sight if I so wished; but Eustace was mad as a loon if he thought I'd let him cut into my arm using a sharp object with his eyes jolly well _closed_!

"Sorry," he said, trembling. "I..."

"Oh, give me that knife!" I groaned. The whole tracker-cutting business would go quicker if I simply went ahead and did it myself.

I hastily cut out my tracker, paling quite a lot when-at first-I couldn't seem to find the little thing (and with blood gushing out of my arm in a stream that formed a drip-dropping pool at my bent elbow, I constantly wondered if I _had_ gotten it and missed it because it was so small), relieved when I spied the faintest wink of a gleaming silvery speck, vaguely like a miniature computer chip, floating in that forming scarlet puddle on the ground by my feet.

"Now!" I said.

Using an already previously torn sleeve from my blouse, Eustace tied up the wound.

Grimacing from the pain, I slipped my sweater sleeve back down over it.

His turn.

Eustace, as only could be expected, fainted when the point of the knife touched his arm, my fingers tightening round the handle. I had to cut his tracker out while he was still unconscious. But, I suppose, really, that was just as well.

I then ripped off the sleeve of his blue tunic and tied it over the wound, once I was satisfied the tracker was out of him.

I told myself I would have to remind him not to pull his bare, wounded arm out of his cloak for any reason whatever. If he had to reach for something, he should use the other arm if at all possible.

He recovered from his faint when a lady I took for the butcher's wife (or housemaid) dumped a bucket of water out into the alley for some reason (perhaps it might have been to scare off some wild cats that had been mating rather loudly behind one of the dustbins); I moved out of the way, but was not able to move him before his head and upper shoulders were doused.

After Eustace dried off a little, we risked going into a small one-roomed coffee shop to use the bathroom (it was nicer than going in the alleyway) and to see if we could get ourselves a free glass of water and a table to sit down at.

Between Eustace's hat and my hood, I thought we might be safe enough, so long as we avoiding getting a chair directly in front of the window, to rest our legs for an odd half-hour or so; long enough to get some strength back so we could keep walking till we figured what to do next, but not so long that the shopkeeper would be suspicious.

That was one thing I was anxious about, by the way.

The shopkeeper throwing us out.

True, we weren't really dressed like ragamuffins. But, we did still appear rather like a pair of little sunken-faced hoodlums-if the reflections starting back at us from the metal dustbins were not wholly distorted-with dark circles under our eyes, sallow skin that was peeling and drooping in certain places...

Let's just say we were quite far from being a pretty sight for sore eyes.

Except, I remembered, there were probably people in the Capitol who looked worse than us.

An elective operation gone wrong, or an addiction to strong drugs-like Morphling, perhaps-could result in a person looking nearly as bad as if they'd just come out of the latest Hunger Games.

The keeper of the coffee shop was a middle-aged woman with dark evergreen eyeliner tattooed on the skin, in the pattern of ivy-vines, all around her bright blue eyes.

She was a true Capitol lady, through and through, that was clear, but she was also kind. She reminded me a little, I had to admit, of Cinna (I was very sorry to think that he believed me dead).

She made no effort to throw us out of her shop, even when it became apparent we weren't buying anything aftering using her bathroom. And when we asked for water, she gave us, not only that, but a cup of tea each and a set of scones.

"We-" I began to protest.

She shook her head. "Oh, don't worry about it. Those scones have less than an hour before I expect them to begin going stale; and I doubt I'll sell them before that. Besides, the tea pot was almost empty-I have to make a fresh pot, and didn't want to waste the little that was left over. Besides, neither of you look as if you'd had it easy. Hard day?"

Eustace chuckled. "Oh, you have _no_ idea."

I forced my giggle down with a swig of the tea.

It was all too lovely for words; the taste of the scones (they tasted fresh to me, no matter what the woman had said about them being on the brink of going bad), the feel of the hot tea going down my throat; even the gentle coolness of the rim on the little porcelain cup the tea was served in felt like paradise.

Another lady behind the counter (a waitress, I think), this one donning a pea-green wig and too much flamingo-pink lipstick, regarded us. "Did anyone ever tell you two you're dead-ringers for the kids from District 7 and 1? You know, from this year's Hunger Games? Not the ones that lived; the other set. The ones that died last."

"We get that a lot," I mumbled, turning away, trying to take in the full impact what she'd said.

_Not the ones that lived..._

The _ones_? I thought. As in plural?

Was it possible that _both_ Edmund and Lucy had survived?

Eustace, meanwhile, was saying, "You really think I look like the boy tribute from District 1? Thanks, what a compliment. Gosh, I always thought he was so much more handsome than me."

I rolled my eyes and elbowed him in the side to make him hush up.

"Oh, can I take my luncheon break now?" asked the woman in the green wig, looking pleadingly at the shopkeeper.

"Why?" asked the shopkeeper.

"They're showing a replay of the two victors being announced on the jumbo-screen in the square and I promised to meet some friends there."

"Very well," she sighed. "Off with you, then."

We swallowed a few more bites of scone (finding ourselves unable to finish the pastries) and quietly slipped out the door, dazed; from the kindness and food as much as the sudden knowledge that both Edmund and Lucy were alive.

The boy from my district and Eustace's cousin...alive...

And here I had thought _we'd_ -Eustace and I-had an adventure defying the Capitol and surviving!

I knew we would have to see it for ourselves to believe it.

We were easily lost among the dense crowd, looking up at the screen in the middle of the square.

Some dark clouds overhead seemed to mean rain, but nobody paid them anymore mind than they paid us; all eyes stared, unblinking, at the screen. It wasn't quiet, though, for everybody seemed to be whispering about what they were doing when the clip first aired live.

Funny, I thought, how it is the tributes who have to go through everything, and yet, when these people speak of the games, it's all about themselves; almost never about the children who died, or about the victor(s) in their malnourished state of critical health.

We saw everything on that screen: the muttation wolves, Lucy fading fast when her stitches came loose in that tree, and Edmund's threat to kill himself if they let her die, and finally the announcement that they were both victors.

Edmund risked so much to save the girl from District 1... I hoped those in charge of the games would not change their minds and bring harm to the pair when the fickle public forgot about the unlikely, previously doomed, lovers from the luxury and lumber districts.

Hopefully, even if that became the case, I thought they might be lucky enough have several years together; Peter Pevensie, Johanna Mason, Finnick Odair, and others were still fairly well-known (not like the forgotten children that died in the games they won), after all.

Still rather in shock, we paid a visit to a tourist information building. There we got ourselves a map of the Capitol and the nearest districts. It wasn't a very good one, but it was better than nothing. And it was something to give us hope-to show us there were places to go-that we were no longer trapped in an arena that, while vast, had a place where it began and a place where it ended. Perhaps the real world had that, too, I didn't know; yet, the notion that it might take years and years to reach either point-years and years to be caught, or for more bad things to happen, was a comfort I cannot fully express.

Eustace and I rested on a park bench outside (those dark clouds had parted, giving no rain after all, and the sun shown brightly) and talked it over.

There wasn't very much to say, however, and soon we were just sitting there in silence.

I picked up my tired, swollen feet and tucked them under me.

Eustace sighed and put his head in my lap. "Jill?"

Absently, I stroked his light-coloured hair with my fingertips. "Hmm?"

"Where do you want to go?"

"I don't care," I said. Then, after thinking for a moment, "Someplace nice. Warm and safe."

Eustace nodded. "That's where I want to go, too."

I almost said that I hoped the place we ended up had a post office. Because I wished to send my silver horse-ring, hidden at that moment in my sweater pocket so nobody could see it and suspect, to my parents. It wasn't safe; not then. But I made myself promise that, whenever the moment came when it might not be a fatal move, I would sent my token home. And perhaps, in that way, a part of me would be there-to reassure those I loved that my 'death' was not as it seemed. For the time being, I decided to say nothing; it would be my own little secret plan. Something to think of and draw a small measure of happiness and promise for the future from when the image of my parents crying behind the closed windows and doors of our home back in District 7 haunted me on particularly dark, sleepless nights.

I didn't know what life would bring after that, for Eustace and I; I'd no idea at all what to expect; but one thing was evident.

For the time being, and-if hope could, for once, be eternal-perhaps for ever, I was free.

And that is no little thing for a powerless District 7 girl whose name has been drawn in the reaping.

The freedom to choose which games she will play and which, far nastier ones, she will walk away from, comparatively unscathed.


	35. Chapter 35: Edmund

It's the first interview Lucy and I have had since we won the games.

Not surprising, really, seeing as we just got out of the hospital _yesterday_.

And for people who are declared fit to leave, I have to admit, we look bloody awful.

Because Peter refused to let them surgically alter any part of Lucy, and Johanna-with much less vim, I might add-told them to let me recover naturally, too, we look like war refugees.

Skinny and pale, with blank, dull eyes.

I'm almost afraid to look at my own reflection half the time. It sort of scares me when I don't recognize myself. And I don't. If I didn't know better, I'd swear it was a perfect stranger staring back at me.

Somebody I've never seen before in my life.

I know Lucy has the same problem. She tries to hide it, but I've seen her glancing in the mirror at herself from time to time with this sad expression on her face.

More often than not, if I'm in the room and I don't completely ignore what she's doing, she'll out-right ask me if I think she's pretty.

Of course I do. But she doesn't always seem to believe me when I tell her so. She mostly just sighs and moves on.

Which, honestly, I don't understand at all.

She's too thin from being in the Hunger Games, and her body shows signs of malnourishment, sure, but aside from that, I can't see _anything_ wrong with her. I can't figure out exactly what it is she wants to change so badly. What in the world she could possibly be sighing at.

The only visible problems can be changed by time and proper care, after all. And I know Peter will take care of that. Make sure she eats when she has to and gets enough rest.

Portia has designed a black-and-gray tunic and woolen tights that makes me look a little bulkier. Whoever thinks black always has a slimming effect has never seen this thing.

She says it's due to a lot of horizontal lines and the placement of the gray cloth. I don't get it, or care. All I understand, all I _need_ to understand, is that it will keep me from looking starved in front of the live studio audience.

And everybody says the camera adds on some pounds, so nobody in the districts or watching the broadcast from their cushy Capitol mansions will think I look like the bloody Grim Reaper.

It's all part of the act.

Another part is that I'm supposed to pretend this is the first time I've seen Lucy since they separated us after we won.

Everybody in the hospital, and nearly all of the past victors who are friends or acquaintances of Peter or Johanna, know this isn't true.

After that one night I took out my IV needles and went into her room, we got visitation rights. Under the rule that I never take out my IV needles again or go wandering without an escort.

So, obviously, we've seen each other almost every day since then.

The white smocks all say I'm unmanageable and 'truly impossible to take care of' when they _don't_ let me see her.

But the Capitol wants a big joyous reunion. And that's what they're going to get. By order of Lord Snow.

I'm almost positive Lord Snow himself knows we've been seeing each other, that this staged reunion isn't real.

But, hopefully, if we pull it off, he won't care.

 _I_ don't care.

Johanna makes it seem like it's a big deal, constantly telling me not to mess it up. I demand to know who allowed her to storm into my dressing-room and bark orders at me. To which she just rolls her eyes and tells me to shut up.

Really! Like it's going to be _hard_ pretending I'm happy to see Lucy. I'm always happy to see her. I'm happy she's even _alive_ , for pity's sake! And kissing her on live television? Yeah, been there, done that-it's not exactly a novelty.

So, waving off Portia's well-meaning smile and Johanna's "Don't make yourself look like a rebel or I'll kill you if the Capitol doesn't first," scowl, I step up onto the stage.

Hopefully, it just looks like I'm waving to the cameras.

I am on 'Live With Caesar Flickerman'... _again_...

And here's my host... _Caesar Flickerman_!

Shocker.

Caesar tells me to have a seat on the two-cushioned red couch, but before I can sit down, here comes, from the other side of the stage, the other victor-the one I threatened the Capitol to save-Lucy Pevensie.

She's dressed in a red velvet gown that obviously has a lot of padding in it (because I know her waist is currently much, _much_ smaller than that) and her hair has been left loose, partly braided on one side, with the bottom curled.

The stage is a little uneven where she's standing, and she trips, lurching forward.

But I've already reached her and caught her before she comes close to falling.

The audience is clapping and "Aww"-ing like mad. And they go even more nuts when I kiss her and she intertwines her fingers with mine, staring into my eyes as I slowly pull away.

I could almost believe we hadn't seen each other since the last episode of this year's Hunger Games myself, if I didn't know better.

For added effect, I pull her in for a hug and hold onto her with my eyes closed for a long time, ignoring Caesar's polite coughs for us to remember we're supposed to be doing an interview.

Not that the audience cares. They're absolutely loving this. It turns out Lucy and I even have a fan club.

That's right.

A whole bloody club dedicated to how 'cute' our relationship is.

Don't any of these people have _lives_?

Call me crazy, but there _must_ be something more valuable to spend their time doing than standing in the back row holding up a sign that reads: _Lumund 4eva!_

Perhaps they could start by learning to spell the word 'ever'.

Just a suggestion.

We take our seats and Lucy leans on my shoulder till she notices Caesar looking at her and sits up.

"Oh no, sweetheart, you can lean on him if you want. Go ahead, it won't ruin the interview," he says. "That was precious."

The audience is giggling.

Caesar waits for them to quiet down, then says, to us, "Now, before we show the three-hour recap of the 77th Hunger Games highlights, I'd love to ask the both of you some questions."

I nod; Lucy blinks.

"First question is for you, Edmund," he says. "I think it was pretty obvious from the start that Lucy had, shall we say, a bit of a crush on you..."

It was? How did I miss that?

"...but the real fun, I think, for the audience was watching you fall in love with her. For me, the moment when your feelings were most apparent was when you first kissed her after being in that cave for, what, three days? So I guess the question is, what was going through your head at that moment?"

My cheeks feel hot.

Not because I'm embarrassed, but because I'm actually a bit angry.

That _was_ , more or less, the exact moment I realized I was in love with Lucy. If they had picked another random time to pin-point my feelings to, it would be easier to keep the play-acting for the cameras separate from what's real. Them picking the real moment and bringing it into this fake reunion, this television version of my relationship with Lucy, annoys me for some reason.

It shouldn't make me cross. All that should matter is getting through this. But I can't help being upset. The best I can do is try to play off my flushed expression as embarrassed; hide the real thinking behind my sudden vulnerability.

"Well," I say, swallowing hard, "everything was happening so quickly... I guess I was just thinking I'd never known anybody quite like her." Well, that's true. And maybe in a less public moment I can say that (to _her_ , not a bunch of strangers and cameras) in a less stiff-sounding tone of voice.

"Ah, indeed," says Caesar easily, smiling. "And I think we all knew that to be the case when you thought she was dead."

I stare at the nearest camera blankly.

I'm trying to figure out which moment he's referencing.

When Cato told me my 'blue-eyed ally' was dead? When, after the coma berry incident, I nearly ate nightlock, thinking Lucy wasn't going to wake up? When we were in that tree at the end, looking down at the wolf-mutts? Or perhaps he means when I had to give her stitches and she stopped making noise and I thought...?

Could he be referring to _all_ of that with one simple comment?

"Lucy." Caesar shifts his attention over to her. "Would you care to tell us what your first impression of Edmund was?"

She blushes and lifts her head up. "You mean, at the opening ceremonies?"

"Sure, start there."

"I didn't really know him then," Lucy begins. "Except, he..."

Casear nods encouragingly.

"He fell out of his chariot, and everybody knew who he was after that."

Et tu, Lucy?

"At first I thought he was kind of..." Lucy's eyes flicker from Caesar to me. "Kind of scary."

Me? Scary?

"Oh, yes," agrees Caesar, "you _did_ seem a little afraid of him. Like when he shoved you during the cornucopia fight the first day in the arena. That must have been before you realized you liked him."

Golly, I _was_ a real ass, wasn't I?

Lucy shakes her head. "No, I liked him before that."

"Well, you really seemed as if you thought he was going to kill you when he saved you from the tracker jackers."

"I _did_ think he was going to kill me," Lucy admits, lightly biting her lower lip. "That doesn't mean I didn't like him."

"So at what point exactly did you start to like him?"

"Well, it was at the Training Center," she says softly, looking downwards. "I was cold and he put his dres-er, I mean _coat_ -over my shoulders."

I remember that night. The night I spied on the mentors. The same night I saw Caspian and Lilliandil together (I think I lost Lilliandil's token somewhere during my last day in the arena, so I can't give it back to him like I planned). But, the thing is, we were both somewhere we weren't supposed to be. _I_ wasn't supposed to be on that floor. _She_ was supposed to be in bed. And it was a dressing-gown, not a coat.

What strikes me the most about her sad attempt to tell the truth and lie at the same time is that she liked me _then_.

I hadn't the foggiest notion.

Glancing at Peter, off to the side with the VIP part of the audience, I see he's raised an eyebrow.

He caught Lucy's little slip of the tongue. He knows I never, during any point in time when the tributes from other districts were supposed to be in the same room, or even on the same floor, gave Lucy my coat.

"Oh, so this whole romance started _outside_ of the arena?" Caesar teases.

"Not really," says Lucy. "I don't think he looked twice at me before we became allies."

I sort of mumble, "I might have looked at you as many as _three_ times. Just not so you noticed." Even before I was in love with her, I kept track of her. That is, I noticed her. Even worried about her a little, though I tried not to.

"So, one last question before we roll the footage," says Caesar. "For Edmund."

I cock my head slightly to one side in acknowledgment.

"When you shouted out that you would kill yourself if Lucy died," he says, "what was going through your mind?"

Here it is. The question I knew he was going to ask. The question I have to answer just right or both Lucy and I are done for.

Yeah, no pressure.

"All I was thinking," I say, as clearly as humanly possible, "was that I didn't want to live if I lost her for real. _Nothing_ else." To make myself seem even more like a pathetic lovesick boy with half a brain (which I'm starting to wonder if I actually _am_ ), I add, kind of snorting, "I mean, you all saw me almost eat nightlock. It's hard for me to think straight when Lucy's in danger. That's all."

Lucy is gaping at me. "You almost ate _what_?"

Oh, that's right, she didn't know about that. I spat them out the moment I saw her finger move.

Caesar laughs. "Somebody's in trouble."

"The important word here is ' _almost_ '," I protest.

The audience laughs hysterically.

Almost to my relief, they begin roll the Hunger Games recap and everybody shuts up.

There are all these huge screens facing just about every direction. No one can possibly miss this. In the districts, this is part of our required viewing. As if it wasn't bad enough the _first_ time they made us watch it.

This year is different from any other, though, because I lived it, but I've never seen any of this footage.

I never saw what everybody else, back home and in the Capitol, saw.

Till now.

It's amazing how they managed to condense the whole thing into only three hours.

Of course, they've left some parts out. The duller scenes. Parts with tributes walking or ducking behind trees.

Lasaraleen is left out almost entirely. We see her at the cornucopia but never again after that. The highlights don't even feature her death, or me being nearby.

Myself and Lucy get the most screen-time.

I guess this can only be expected, since we're the victors.

We _do_ see quite a bit of Jill Pole during the first hour. How her alliance with Eustace started out. She was supposed to fight him to the death, but spared him deliberately so he could be her ally.

There's a brief shot of my one conversation with Foxface. Her up in that tree, me below, sword in hand, carrying the net I stole after I let Prim go.

Watching it play out makes my stomach hurt. I think Foxface will always be one of my life's biggest 'what ifs'. The girl who was almost my friend.

Then it shows me setting up the net.

I can feel Lucy's eyes shifting away from the screen and landing on me.

This is a moment I've been dreading. I couldn't make myself tell her that I was responsible for Emeth's death. I tried, several times, in the hospital, but my throat always went dry before I could get it out.

She puts her hand over mine, currently resting on my lap, and I know she forgives me.

We see Gael and Prim die, and our on-screen reactions.

(Lucy playing the funeral song for Gael on the violin is not shown. I guess it smacks a little too strongly of rebellion.)

Lucy shudders and pulls herself closer to me.

More or less every second of my fight with Cato is featured. Including when he told me Lucy was dead. We see Eustace decapitate him, then go into shock.

I'm rather put-off to see that the recap has also kept in me completely losing it in the cave when I returned and Lucy wasn't there, before I realized she had to still be alive because her face wasn't in the night sky.

But what I see next stops me from feeling even remotely sorry for myself.

I see Clove and Jadis hurting Lucy. The look on Lucy's face when Clove cuts her lower back. She cries and begs them to stop several times, but they ignore her. When they finally let her go, I see her staggering around helplessly. She falls flat on her face more than once and seems to have trouble getting back up again. It's a miracle she reached the stream where I found her at all.

Peter can't even look at the screens. Required viewing or not. He looks like he might cry or vomit at any given moment.

Seeing it live must have just about killed him.

I know I'm not handling it much better. I have to keep looking at Lucy, sitting right next to me, to remind myself it's over. She's not being hurt _now_. She's going to be _fine_. What happened is in the past. Nothing will ever hurt her again.

When it reaches the part with Jill and Eustace dying, a strange feeling washes over me. I'm not so sure what they ate was nightlock. But I have no way of knowing how that turned out.

I wish I could ask Lucy what she thinks, if she believes her cousin would really eat nightlock, but I can't risk it.

Not even in private, when 'Live With Caesar Flickerman' is over. It's still the Capitol, after all. It would put us at risk. And we won't be going home together. She's going to District 1, and I'm going back to 7.

Finally, they show us fighting the last mutts the gamemakers sent out. Those bloody awful wolves with dead-tributes' eyes. My threat. Us both being declared victors.

Then the screen goes dark.

There's thunderous applause.

I hate everyone in the audience, victors included, except for maybe Peter.

The anthem plays.

We're told Lord Snow has a touch of the flu and can't attend the concluding ceremonies this year, so we'll receive our victor crowns and official plaques while on tour.

I bet they just couldn't get a second crown made in time. They're never needed two in one year before.

I don't think Lord Snow is ill at all. I think he wants to scare me as deeply into submission as possible with his lack of presence.

It's easier to make yourself not fear something you've seen in person.

If I see a doddering old man in a fancy suit glaring at me whenever his back is turned to the cameras and the audience can't catch his expression, I can talk myself into being less afraid.

A governmental power backed up by an important person I've only seen on television and on a balcony, looking down at all twenty-four tributes during the opening ceremonies, is a great deal more unnerving.

After the show, I have to go to the bathroom.

I don't realize it's one of those single-person bathrooms. Much less that it's occupied.

It's unlocked.

"Oh, sorry!" I blurt out, when I see Peter standing at the sink, splashing water on his face.

He turns to see who just walked in on him and I'm surprised to see he has two black eyes.

"Ouch. What happened to you?"

He looks both ways, making sure there's no one behind me. "Get in and close the door."

I do so. "You look terrible."

"I know." He shrugs.

"So how..." I just saw him a few minutes ago. How could he have possibly gotten beaten up since then?

"They really didn't like the little stunt I pulled," he tells me. "You know, sending Lucy that violin, pretending it was from a sponsor."

"So they beat you up for it _now_?" I ask, confused.

He sighs and shakes his head, smiling bitterly. "No, Edmund, they beat me up for it five minutes after that violin went through. Then again right when she finished playing that funeral song."

"But-" I begin.

"I've been covering it with makeup." He looks in the mirror, then at me. "Don't tell Lucy."

"Pete..."

"Listen, Ed, there's a lot of things about my life I'd rather she didn't know," Peter says softly. "And this is one of them."

A realization dawns on me. "This isn't the first time Capitol officials have beaten you."

"Oh, great Scott, no!" He almost sounds like he might laugh. "They threw me out of a window once. Now, that... _that_ really hurt." He really is laughing, chuckling to himself. I wonder if he's gone round the bend. "This is nothing."

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

I take a deep breath. "Does it ever go away?" I'm sure he knows what I mean. The games. The images shown in the recap. The memories.

"No," he tells me gently. "It doesn't."

Suddenly the door swings open.

I jump.

Peter curses under his breath.

"Relax, Pevensie, it's only me."

"Oh, hey, Fin." Peter looks relieved.

District 4 mentor, Finnick Odair, is wedged in the doorway. "Are you going to be much longer? I have to go."

"No, _I_ have to go," I insist.

"Just let me cover up these black eyes again, then you can flip a coin or something," Peter says.

"Oh, by the way, Peter," says Finnick, "thanks for the advice."

Peter crinkles his forehead. "What advice? That you should buy beach towels in bulk?"

"No, no," he snorts, waving it off. "The other advice."

" _Oh_ ," says Peter. "That advice."

Finnick nods.

"So it worked?"

"Sure did," Finnick says proudly. "I spent all night cleaning vomit, and no one was the wiser. You're a genius."

All right, I'm completely lost...

"Don't mention it," Peter says, smearing a tan-coloured powder over his right eyelid. "Seriously. Don't mention it."

"Well, I might have already mentioned it to Johanna."

"Dash it, Finnick!"

"She says we're idiots and we're going to mess up and get caught. Oh, and be thrown in the federal pokey, whatever that is."

"Of course she did," Peter grumbles. "And what did you tell her?"

"To stop being so negative."

"Ah."

"Maybe she's right." Finnick sighs. "We double-cross Lord Snow, and we're all going to the pokey."

"Fin, don't use a word if you don't even know what it means." He's almost finished covering up his black eyes.

"Ahem." I clear my throat pointedly, to remind them I'm still here.

Finnick looks embarrassed. "Uh, Pevensie..."

"He's one of us now," Peter reminds him.

"So he knows about..."

"Not yet."

"When are you going to tell him?"

"On tour, maybe, but only if I have to." Peter wipes his hands on a paper towel. "Here's hoping the subject in its entirety never comes up."

" _Him_ is standing right here," I grunt.

"Amen," Finnick agrees, ignoring me.

They both leave me standing alone in the bathroom, brow furrowed, frowning at the door.

I guess I won the hypothetical coin toss.

If I'd thought of it, I could have blackmailed Peter into telling me whatever he's holding back in exchange for keeping quiet about those black eyes of his.

But I don't think I could go through with that, anyway.

I wouldn't want Lucy knowing her brother took a beating to send that violin to her in the arena.

So it's moot.

It would have been a shallow bluff, at best.

Besides, do I even really _want_ to know what they were talking about?

Night comes. I'm back in my room at the Training Center on the 7th floor. And I can't sleep.

I decide to go to the roof.

The night air and the faint hum of the force-field won't feel so alien to me as my room does. It's sort of like being in the arena. It's funny, how I suddenly crave being in the one place in the Training Center that's most similar to it.

Then again, this whole building is, in its own way, as much of a prison as the arena; perhaps the _real_ reason I crave being on the roof is because I know the night sky above me there will be something natural, not something created by the Capitol for a dark purpose.

There will be no faces in that sky. Only stars. Real stars, not a Gamemaker's idea of what an ideal star ought to look like.

When I climb up, I see somebody has set up a few pillows and blankets.

Then I see Lucy sitting there, on top of one of the blanket piles, looking out at the Capitol.

"Hey, Lu."

She turns round halfway. "Hey, Ed."

"Thinking about home?"

"A little," she says.

I've been thinking about _my_ home, too.

We'll see each other again, on tour, since we're both victors, but this is our last night together.

Part of me wants it over. So I can go home and try not to think about this terrible place and all the people who I saw die. But another part of me wishes I had a hundred more days here, so I could spend them all with Lucy.

Back in District 7, when I really miss her, perhaps I'll even find myself wishing I was back in the arena. Wishing I could have all those bad experiences back, just so I could have the good ones, too.

Falling in love, learning to stand on my own two feet, learning-albeit slowly-to _like_ myself, maybe just a little bit... Would I have ever known what any of that felt like if my name hadn't been drawn in the reaping for the 77th Hunger Games?

I guess I'll never know.

"I'm sorry you won't get to see the ruins," I say, sitting down beside her.

I guess they think it would seem too rebellious to have her go there-given the way we won. Not even Peter, who'd give her just about anything she wants, can risk it.

Lucy shrugs and stretches out, lying down on the blankets.

"Will you tell me about them?" I ask, lowering myself down onto my elbows.

"How can I? I never saw the Cair Paravel ruins."

"You must have an idea, in your mind, of what it's like," I tell her. "You can tell me about that." I roll over onto my side.

She presses her back against my chest and, reaching backwards, takes my hand, holding onto my index and ring fingers.

So she tells me.

About the great castle by the sea, all crumbling towers and shattered stone courtyards now, but once upon a time, back when Panem was Narnia, a building that was a wonder of the world.

For a place Lucy has never seen, she makes it sound wonderful.

The play-world of a young girl from District 1, created to keep the Capitol's darkness out, to let her believe that, even though things aren't good _now_ , they _used_ to be, can lick the real world, the unfortunate thing that is currently Panem, hollow.

Her voice trails off, peppered by yawns.

Soon she's asleep.

I follow shortly, but those ruins she told me about are the center of my dreams tonight.

Lucy and I are walking along the shore, wading ankle-deep in the water, looking up at what used to be the castle.

Cair Paravel is a graveyard.

We can see it's fallen to bits. Just like the heaps of stones Lucy described. The tower facing us is missing more than half of its roof.

But as we start walking up the cliff-like hill towards it, getting closer and closer, something odd happens.

The building seems to be putting itself back together.

As if by magic.

The stones gather and change colour. Holes in the wall close like new skin over a wound. The wooden doors that long ago rotted away have grown back, as if they were nothing but leaves on a tree, dead only for a season, now back in bloom.

It's going to be lonely, I think, just the two of us in a castle _that_ large.

But as we walk inside, to what I take to be the main throne room, we see that everybody is already there.

I can see my parents, Susan, Tumnus, Johanna, Peter, Finnick, even people who have lived nearby my home in District 7 for years but I don't know well enough to put names to.

Everybody is here.

And I mean, _everybody_.

I see all of the dead tributes from this year, not bloody or in anguish, as they were last seen, but as alive and well-dressed as they were for their pre-Hunger Games interviews with Caesar Flickerman.

The boy and girl tributes from districts 8, 9, and 10, standing together.

Foxface and the dwarf I killed.

Clove and Cato, linking arms.

Prim, holding a fat cat with one arm and raising the other to wave at Lucy and me.

Gael, smiling.

Jill and Eustace, both with garlands made of what looks like cuttings from a bush of coma berries on their heads.

Ash, wearing a new pair of spectacles.

Heath, winking at us in passing.

Lasaraleen and Emeth.

Lilliandil, beaming, holding hands with Caspian.

Glimfeather and Peridan sitting on opposite sides on the sill of an open window.

Even Jadis occupies a shadowy corner, sort of cut off from the rest of the castle's guests.

And a man and woman who look just like the picture in Lucy's locket are standing near where Gael and Prim are.

Music plays, though I can't see any speakers or musicians.

And on the roof of the Training Center, holding Lucy for what might be the last time for quite a while, I do something I think must be an extremely rare occurrence for victors of the Hunger Games.

I smile in my sleep.


End file.
